POEMS. 


BY 


MRS.   0.  M.  LIVINGSTON. 


at  tlje 

AND   FOR   SALE   BY 

KURD  AND  HOUGHTON,  NEW  YORK 

1868. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

'  ,'  !    X»3.    0.    Mr    LfVjNSSTpNj       • 

in  the  Clerk's  Office' of  -the  District  Court  fof «tjfe  Southern  District 
.of  New,  .Xork.    , 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


THE  Author  has  selected  from  her  manuscripts 
the  poems  contained  in  this  volume,  hoping  that, 
notwithstanding  their  imperfections,  they  would 
be  not  unfavorably  received  by  the  public.  Many 
of  them  are  now  published  for  the  first  time, 
while  others  have  before  appeared  in  the  leading 
periodicals  of  the  day.  They  are  the  productions 
of  moments  that  have  intervened  during  the  duties 
of  domestic  life,  often  unstudied,  and  written  in 
the  fullness  of  the  feelings  of  the  heart.  Perhaps 
the  reader  may  select  from  them  a  thought  to  re- 
call some  wild  flower  which  has  been  passed  on 
the  way-side  of  life,  and  cause  it  again  to  shed  its 
fragrance  on  the  sterile  fields  of  Time. 


M  9503 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

AUTHOR'S  SOLILOQUY 1 

SUNSET      8 

THE  SNOW  STORM 11 

MIND  AND  MATTER 12 

MORNING 14 

THE  OLD  CHURCH 16 

JOHNNY  GRAY 18 

INSCRIBED  TO  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE    ...  20 

VALENTINE.    To  ALFRED  TENNYSON       ....  21 

THE  EVENING  EAIN 23 

CHILDHOOD  O'ER  ME  FONDLY  LINGERS    ....  25 

THE  OLD  SCHOOL-HOUSE 27 

NATIONAL  HYMN 29 

To  THE  DELAWARE  RIVER 31 

To  A  FRIEND 34 

OLD  IRONSIDES 35 

SOFTENED  LIGHTS  AFFECTION  BRINGETH        ...  37 

FREEDOM 38 

THE  QUILL  PEN 41 

PENTHEOS 43 

SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN 46 

THE  FRIENDS  THAT  LOVE  ME 48 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  POET 50 

To  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW 52 

THE  LAST  VOICES  OF  AUTUMN 54 

THE  LEAVES  ON  THE  STREAM 56 

THE  PROMISE 58 

THE  WIND 60 


vi  CONTENTS. 


MATERNAL,  LOVE 63 

GLENVILLE 64 

MOUNT  AUBURN 66 

THE  ANGELS 70 

DEPARTING  DAY 73 

SERMON  BY  A  WORM .  74 

Music 77 

MYSTERIOUS  NATURE Y8 

WARREN'S  STATUE  AT  BOSTON 81 

PUISSIEZ  VOUS  ETRE  HEUREUX 82 

WORK  WHILE  THE  DAY  LASTS 84 

FLOWERS  ON  FRANCES  OSGOOD'S  GRAVE     •  86 

THE  ORPHAN 87 

THE  STEEL  PEN 89 

THE  MINSTREL  GIRL 90 

MY  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND  MARY 91 

CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR 93 

EVENING 96 

NIAGARA  FALLS .        .        .98 

DEDICATION  SONG 100 

THE  WOUNDED  TOAD 102 

THE  SLAVE'S  SOLILOQUY 105 

FAREWELL  TO  THESE  ISLANDS 107 

LAKE  HARRISON 109 

WINTER Ill 

THE  HOME  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD 113 

AGNES.    A  PASTORAL  LAY 115 

UNKIND  WORDS 119 

PROLOGUE 120 

RALLYING  SONG 122 

A  WISH 124 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 125 

MY  BIRTHPLACE 129 

To  NELLIE 130 

SONG  TO  THE  NIGHT  BIRD 132 

THE  EXILE'S  EVENING  REVERIES. 

I.    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  DEPARTED  DAYS    .        .  133 

II.    TIME 134 

III.  FAME 134 

IV.  PIETY    .                                                 ...  135 


CONTENTS.  vil 

PAGB 
I   DO   NOT   LIKE   THIS    ClTY   LlFE 137 

THE  DYING  EMIGRANT  MOTHER 139 

MARCH 142 

PlCUS-QUERULUS 143 

THE  SISTER  TO  HER  SICK  BROTHER    ....        145 

THE  PARASITE 147 

WAR  OF  THE  EUROPEAN  ALLIES  WITH  RUSSIA  .        .        149 

THE  EMBLEM 151 

THE  NOONDAY  SHOWER 152 

GOLD 155 

ANNIVERSARY  ODE 159 

VALENTINE  TO  A  POET 161 

THE  POET 162 

To  MY  BRIEF  COMPANION  AT  THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD    .    163 
THE  "BOSTON  DAILY  TRAVELLER"      ....        165 

MY  NATIVE  LAND 167 

THE  SOLITARY  HOUR.    1 168 

THE  SOLITARY  HOUR.    II 170 

A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 172 

AUTUMN 173 

TWILIGHT 176 

THE  VIOLET 177 

A  MORNING  WALK  INTO  THE  COUNTRY       .        .        .        179 

'T  WAS  A  DREADFUL  COLD  NIGHT 181 

NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS  TO  MY  LITTLE  DAUGHTER  MARIE  182 

THE  CLOUD  SHIP 184 

MAY 186 

WINTER  SKETCHES 188 

THE  BRIGHT  GLOWING  FIRE 190 

THE  DYING  YEAR  TO  MY  LITTLE  DAUGHTER  SUSIE      .    391 
THE  NEW  YEAR  TO  MY  LITTLE  SON    ....        193 

THE  AVALANCHE 194 

HEPATICA-TRILOBA 195 

THE  YOUNG  BRIDE 197 

WHAT  HAST  THOU  DONE 199 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ISAAC  LEWIS,  D.  D.          ...    201 

HYMN  OF  HEAVEN 203 

SABBATH  MORNING  HYMN 205 

HYMN 207 

HYMN 208 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

IN  THE  DERP  WATERS  WHEN  THOU  GOEST  .        .        .  209 

I   WILL,   CALL   UPON    THE   LORD     ......  210 

To  MY  DAUGHTER  SUSIE 212 

TWILIGHT  MUSING 213 

THE  INDIAN  BASKET 215 

SPAIN 216 

I  HAVE  FOUND  THEE,  FLORA 22() 

CHOICE  OF  A  FRIEND 221 

To  THE  ORIOLE 223 

EVENING  HYMN 226 

PARTING  MEDITATIONS 227 

THE  OCEAN 229 

THE  GRAVE  OF  MY  LITTLE  NAMESAKE        .        .        .  230 

ST.  NICHOLAS  TO  MY  DEAR  CHILDREN    ....  231 

"I'M  THE  LAST  OF  MY  TRIBE  "   .....  233 

To  A  MARTIN 235 

THE  UNITED  STATES  STEAMER  RICHMOND          .        .  237 

BATTLE  OF  BULL  RUN 239 

NOTES 241 


POEMS. 


AUTHOR'S   SOLILOQUY. 

I  'VE  had  serious  thoughts  to  publish  a  book, 
But  prospects  grow  darker  wherever  I  look; 
Discouragements    gather,    there  's    carnage    and 

dread, 

And  thousands,  alas!  have 'no  money  for  bread: 
For    war  drains    the    country    and    empties    the 

purse, 

While  business  is  daily  becoming  much  worse. 
I  know  when  a  dollar  is  hard  to  be  got, 
Throngs    look    at    a  book,   yet   they  purchase  it 

not ; 

For  wants   more   important  must   first    be    sup- 
plied, 
And  price  of  a  book  will  of  course  be  denied. 

Just  look  at  the  author,  how  wasted  and  thin,  — 
How  the  fires  of  genius  consume  him  within ! 
He  heeds  not  his  rest,  he  spurns  the  rich  feast, 
Yet  labors  that  science  be  widely  increased. 
1 


2  AUTHOR'S  SOLILOQUY. 

He  's  bold  of  exterior,  observers  will  say ; 
That  seldom  he  smiles,  —  that  he  never  is  gay. 
I  pray  you,  kind  critics,  a  moment  to  hear  — 
Why  treat  the  poor  author  unkind  or  severe  ? 
Deal  gently  while  you  may  his  failings  condemn, 

",'  *'•  But    d,wpU  .;dn  •  his    merits,  —  dwell    kindly    on 

;  -  «  «•«  ,<•  «.e »  T  * 

*  tiiem:   •  * 

\  ^  v&n/9t(tfiOr  My,  err&rs  may  not  always  see, 

Hence  'fdiilte' will1  escape   him   that  never  should 

be: 

Yet  faultless  productions  have  seldom  been  found  ; 
In  works  of  great  merit  will  errors  abound. 
To  offer  my  verse  might  elicit  a  smile, 
Abounding  in  failings  and  feeble  in  style : 
With  Rogers  and  Hemans  I  claim  not  to  stand, 
Or  bright  stars  that  shine  in  our  galaxy  grand. 
'Tis  said  a  good  name  we  can  never  obtain, 
Until,  from  all  envy,  in  dust  we  are  lain. 
There  's  many  a  brow  has  been  fitted  to  wear 
Rich  garlands  few  mortals  are  destined  to  share, 
But  circumstance  adverse  disposing  their  lot, 
Or  cut  from  a  critic  was  never  forgot, 
Whose  wounds,  through  a  life-time,  incurably  deep, 
Stayed  the  fountains  of  genius,  and  hush'd  them 

to  sleep,  — 

Thus  clipping  forever  the  young  eaglet's  flight, 
The  Muses  had  cherished  with  fondest  delight. 
Some  others,  more  daring,  a  bold  stand  assume, 
Upon  sarcasm  most  in  a  contest  presume : 
Thus  Byron  ascended  the  climax  of  fame, 
Bade  his  critics  recoil  and  trumpet  his  name. 


AUTHOR'S  SOLILOQUY.  3 

In  our  journey  of  life  what  changes  we  see  : 
From  the  gilded  saloon,  man  a  beggar  may  be ; 
From  the  summit  of  fame  may  the  mightiest  leap, 
And  tarnish  the  glory  a  life-time  did  reap  ; 
From  the   humblest   of  stations   the  genius  may 

rise, 

Whose  talents  and  virtues  all  ages  surprise. 
Behold  that  pale  mendicant  asking  for  bread! 
His  woe- was  ted  form  is  an  object  of  dread ; 
In    the    circle    of  friendship    his    presence    was 

bless'd ; 

As  the  fav'rite  of  all  he  was  ever  caress'd ; 
At  the  altar  of  Genius  her  loved  one  he  came, 
There  lighted  a  torch  that  emblazoned  his  name  ; 
But  insidious  ways  to  fashion's  curst  sin, 
Ah  !     too    soon    in    its  vortex    they    hurled    him 

within ! 

To  the  cup  of  pollution  he  turned  him  aside ; 
He  thirsted,  and  drank,  and  all  principle  died. 
Now  behold  in  that  beggar,  the  object  of  pain, 
All,  all  of  that  greatness  that  now  doth  remain  ! 
That    orphan    boy,  friendless,   that    wanders    the 

street, 

Whose  presence  't  is  pain  for  the  gentry  to  meet, 
In  the  National  Chair  may  find  him  a  seat, 
And  honors  by  monarchs  be  laid  at  his  feet 
All  greatness  is  greatest  when  firmly  'tis  based 
On    the    structure    of   Truth,  —  't  will    ne'er    be 

erased ; 

For  cunning,  deceit,  or  the  smooth  wiles  of  art, 
Only  please  for   a  moment,  —  they  win   not   the 

heart 


4  AUTHOR'S  SOLILOQUY. 

If  aiming  for  honor,  distinction,  or  fame, 
Let  the  halo  of  Justice  encircle  your  name. 
From  Truth's  hallowed  throne  man  should  never 

descend ; 
Then  greatness  may  well  in  his  character  blend. 

In  this  land  of  advancement  whatever  man 
wills, 

He  mounts  till  the  summit  of  stations  he  fills ; 

No  impediment  offers  to  darken  desires ; 

Encouragement  woos  him,  and  freedom  inspires. 

Thus  man  has  indeed  a  most  wonderful  scope, 

His  genius  creative  will  consummate  hope. 

O'er  the  ocean  in  triumph  he  goes  at  his  will ; 

How  grand  his  achievements !  how  mighty  his 
skill ! 

He  levels  the  mountains,  and  plains  meet  the 
eyes! 

He  fells  the  deep  forest,  and  cities  arise. 

The  realms  of  the  pole,  where  the  glacier  sub- 
lime, 

Hath  stood  with  bold  front  since  the  earliest  of 
time, « 

And  splendor  hath  lent  to  that  myst'ry  of  waves 

No  mind  ever  compass'd,  no  sail  ever  braves! 

'Mid  footprints  of  God  on  that  desolate  shore, 

Where  He  walks  in  his  grandeur  and  hideth  his 
lore  — 

There  genius  of  man  hath  his  pathway  explored, 

And  light  on  these  regions  of  Nature  hath  poured. 


AUTHOR'S  SOLILOQUY.  5 

As  advances  the  age,  so  all  things  progress: 
More    numerous    the    volumes    are    issued    from 

press ; 

For  authorship  myriads  are  running  the  race, 
Some  leaping  to  fame,  others  weak  in  the  chase, 
And  where  on  the  land  or  the  sea  is  the  spot, 
Where  book-makers'  sketches  were  ever  forgot? 
In  travels  and  science,  religion  and  art, 
Of  battles  and  bloodshed  that  startle  the  heart, 
Of  nations  discovered,  of  cities  exhumed, 
Which  sunlight  for  ages  has  never  illumed ; 
Where  philosophers  wrote,  where  poets  have  sung, 
Whose  eloquence  echoed  their  temples  among. 
To  the  Poet  the  zephyr  will  utter  a  speech 
The  depths  of  his  bosom  will  forcibly  reach. 
The   song  of  the  rill,  as  it  gracefully  glides 
And  kisses  the  flow'rets  that  bloom  on  its  sides, 
The  birds  in  the  foliage  that  warble  and  sing, 
By  nature  they  teach  how  his  harp  he  shall  string ; 
The  leaf  and  the  rain-drop  that  fall  to  the  earth, 
The  richest  effusions  might  call  into  birth ; 
The  cloud  and  the  meteor  in  many  a  form  ; 
The    de\v  and    the    rainbow,    the    sunshine    and 

storm. 

If  themes  more  extensive  an  author  would  find, 
Let  him  take  up  the  wonderful  subject  of  mind, 
Where  gems  he  may  gather  if  deep  he  explore 
In  that  fathomless  sea  with  an  infinite  shore. 
That  something  profound  in  a  clod  of  the  earth, 
Whence   mighty  achievements   are  wrought   into 

birth  ; 


6  AUTHOR'S  SOLILOQUY. 

That  silent,  invisible  agent  —  a  whole, 

Yet  a-  complex,  aye,  more,  an  intelligent  soul, 

And    which    from    its    chambers    we    designate 

brain  — 

At  will  goeth  out,  then  returneth  again 
In  twink  of  an  eye,  yet  embraceth  all  themes, 
And  fertile  in  knowledge  immortally  teems. 

The  Poet 's  esteemed  an  anomalous  thing, 
That  wits  of  the  world  with  impunity  sting ; 
He 's  deemed  a  strange  being,  superfluous  on 

earth  ; 

But  realms  more  celestial  his  feelings  gave  birth. 
'T  is  true,  he  is  often  eccentric  indeed ; 
The  riches  of  acres  he  feels  not  the  need  ; 
His  wealth  is  his  harp,  his  enjoyment  its  song, 
Hence   strange   he   appears   in   the  world's  busy 

throng. 

The  lays  of  his  genius  invisibly  braid 
Those  rainbows  of  fancy  ne'er  destined  to  fade. 
God  bless  the  poor  Poet!   if  coffers  has  he, 
The  richest  and  poorest  can  take  out  a  fee ; 
But  seldom  a  murmur  escapeth  his  breast, 
If  left  him  his  harp,  with  a  coat  and  a  vest. 

Methinks  a  fair  morning  approacheth  our  sky  ! 
The  Genius  of  Liberty  hovers  on  high. 
See  Freedom's   proud   eagle   her   nest   here  has 

built ; 

Here  blood  of  the  Patriot  in  conflict  was  spilt ; 
Here,  here  in  its  bosom,  when  finances  fail, 
May  the  right  arm  of  Industry  boldly  prevail, 


AUTHOR'S  SOLILOQUY.  7 

And    draw    out    that   wealth    from   its    beautiful 

mine, 
Whose  banks  will  suspend  not,  and  stocks  ne'er 

decline. 

Hail  to  this  great  country!   its  valleys  are  dear, 
Its  mountains   are   green,  and   its  streamlets  are 

clear ; 

Its  rivers  in  splendor  roll  riches  along,  — 
None  nobler  were  ever  exalted  in  song. 
Our  "  Winter  of  discontent "  soon  will  be  o'er, 
And   Summer  succeed  it  more   bright  than  be- 
fore. 

Sweet  Hope !  In  thy  sunshine  all  strength- 
ened I  '11  go, 

My  object  pursuing,  no  obstacle  know. 

A  few  hundred  pages  a  volume  will  make  — 

Shall  try  it !   and  authorship  put  to  the  stake ! 

Thus  my  musings  have  led  me  unconscious 
along, 

In  dreaming  of  Authorship,  Poets,  and  Song. 

At  last  I  've  concluded  my  poems  to  send 

To  a  candid  reviewer  —  to  authors  a  friend. 

I'll  abide  his  decision  whatever  it  be; 

Approved,  they  forthcoming  the  people  will  see. 

No  trifle  to  publish  he  's  e'er  undertook  — 

'T  is  enough  for  the  public  —  "  he  's  published 
the  book." 


SUNSET. 

YE  sunset  clouds  like  flakes  of  gold, 

That  float  in  yonder  western  sky, 
And  burning  there  a  splendor  hold, 

Almost  too  pure  for  mortal  eye ! 
What  shall  I  breathe  of  poets'  lay, 

What  strains  to  thee,  O  sunset,  bring ! 
For  thoughts  uncalled  mysterious  play, 

And  move  the  minstrel's  trembling  string. 

Ye  beauteous  clouds  of  crimson  hue, 

Upward  ye  roll  sublimely  grand, 
Leaving  a  track  of  heavenly  blue 

So  pure,  it  seems  some  spirit  land. 
Angels,  methinks,  are  hovering  there, 

Encircled  in  its  throne  of  light, 
To  bless  a  world  of  sin  and  care, 

And  leave  to  man  some  new  delight. 

Those  golden  hues,  like  smiles  from  God, 
Are  cast  o'er  woodland,  hill,  and  sea, 

And  waving  o'er  the  ocean  wide, 
Some  blessed  promise  seem  to  be. 

Yet  not  that  gorgeous  scene  alone, 
Can  bind  the  heart,  or  spirit  fill, 


SUNSET.  9 

Or  teach  those  laws  the  Great  Unknown 
Is  moving  by  His  secret  will. 

Emotions  kindle  in  the  soul, 

Fancy  sports  on  her  wing  sublime  ; 
Thoughts,  chainless  as  the  orbs  that  roll, 

Sweep  over  space,  and  bounds,  and  time. 
With  feeble  eye,  but  deathless  soul, 

Unable  though  himself  to  scan, 
A  part  of  the  mysterious  whole, 

Is  the  mysterious  being  —  man  ! 

And  all  vitality  must  change,  — 

All  life  material  feels  this  law ; 
Plants  of  the  earth,  and  worms  that  range, 

Through  different  forms  their  being  draw : 
The  worm  a  fly,  the  bulb  a  flower, 

Each  changed,  but  made  more  beauteous  still ; 
The  worm  that  crept,  to  fly  has  power, 

And  soars  unfettered  at  its  will ! 

So  man  to  change  was  subject  made, 

When  his  frail  form  shall  feel  decay ; 
And  when  great  Nature's  debt  is  paid, 

His  spirit  freed  will  soar  away: 
And  like  yon  scene  that  meets  the  view, 

Serenely  bathed  in  golden  light, 
So  will  the  Christian  sunset  be, 

When  changing,  shining  pure  and  bright. 

Now  burning  on  the  wavelet's  breast, 
The  crimson  light  of  sunset  glows ; 


10  SUNSET. 

But  golden  hues  fade  from  the  west, 
And  deeper  twilight's  shadow  grows ; 

Forth,  glittering  from  its  zenith  high, 
Comes  Lyra  with  its  master  strain, 

Bright  leader  of  the  starry  sky, 

And  sweetest  of  the  heavenly  train. 

Gently  the  evening  breezes  play 

Amongst  the  summer  leaves  and  flowers; 
But  Autumn's  melancholy  lay 

Is  poured  upon  the  evening  hours. 
Now  all  is  fading  into  night, 

The  splendid  scene  has  left  the  sky, 
And  sombre  clouds  bereft  of  light 

Are  all  that  meet  the  minstrel's  eye. 


THE   SNOW   STORM. 

THE  cold  gray  curtain  of  the  clouds 
The  face  of  midnight  darkly  shrouds. 
And  hides  the  brilliant  orbs  that  shine 
In  splendid  forms  round  Dian's  shrine. 
Behind  its  folds  the  looms  of  air 
A  spotless  robe  for  Earth  prepare ; 
The  crystal  shuttles  swiftly  go, 
And  weave  the  woof  of  virgin  snow. 

'T  is  done ;    the  fleecy  robe  is  made, 
And  o'er  Earth's  naked  bosom  laid, 
Which  fairy  hands  have  gently  spread, 
With  softened  grace,  where'er  we  tread. 
Peace  o'er  the  mystic  scene  doth  lie ; 
Apollo  opes  his  golden  eye ; 
Backward  the  dusky  curtains  roll, 
And  lo,  reveal  the  splendid  whole ! 

O  beauteous  Earth  !   fantastic  groves, 
With  glittering  towers  and  white  alcoves, 
And  miracles  of  splendor  glow, 
In  bold  relief,  of  spotless  snow. 
Ye  Genii  of  imperial  Rome, 
Whose  glories  crown  her  spire  and  dome, 
Here  might  ye  bow  at  Nature's  shrine, 
And  study  scenes  by  hands  divine. 


MIND   AND   MATTER. 

THROUGH  our  narrow  visual  organs 
Come  the  pictures  on  the  brain  ; 

They  might  line  the  walls  of  ether, 
Yet  one  cell  doth  all  contain. 

Strange,  indeed,  that  two  small  globules, 

Minute  windows  of  the  soul, 
Can  look  out  on  space  extended, 

With  the  power  to  keep  the  whole  ! 

Life-long  scenes  to  keep  eternal, 
Subject  to  the  will's  control  — 

Stretch  the  thought !    expand  the  fancy  ! 
Endless  is  the  mighty  scroll. 

Are  they  on  organic  matter, 

Or  on  fluid  so  refined 
That  no  art  can  it  discover, 

Or  upon  the  immortal  mind? 

Genius  may  construct  her  glasses, 
Point  them  to  the  starry  spheres,  - 

Worlds  unseen  by  them  discover, 

Which  have  run  through  lapse  of  years 


MIND  AND  MATTER.  13 

But  no  art  shall  e'er  discover, 
Nor  genius  e'er  the  veil  unroll, 

That  reveals  the  splendid  mystery, 
Of  the  body  with  the  soul! 

If  the  past  becomes  eternal, 

Back  to  come  at  memory's  nod, 

Man  must  have  a  twofold  being, — 
He  must  be  akin  to  God. 


MORNING. 

THE  night  is  melting  into  day, 

The  crowing  bird  the  silence  breaks, 

The  constellations  fade  away, 

And  opening  flower  its  color  takes. 

Green  alleys  overhung  with  trees, 
Wide  lawns  all  tremulous  with  dew, 

Gray  curling  mists  from  valleys  rise, 
And  grow  defined  upon  the  view. 

The  choral  song  to  light  awakes 

Through  Nature's  grand  cathedral  height 
In  melting  strains  the  chorus  breaks 

"  To  God  !   to  God  !   for  He  is  light !  " 

The  plaintive  voice  of  lowing  kine 
Calling  the  missing  forth  to  graze, 

Evinces  feelings  warm  and  fine 

As  those  the  human  heart  displays. 

See,  by  the  nest  on  yonder  tree, 
The  parent  bird  fond  care  renew; 

He  culls  her  food  from  hill  and  lea, 
And  brings  for  drink  the  morning  dew  1 


MORNING.  15 

Man  in  Heaven's  image  doomed  to  toil 
Unlike  all  else  of  breathing  life, 

Forth  comes  to  till  the  teeming  soil, 
With  sweat  of  brow,  in  earnest  strife. 

God's  smile  of  love  rests  over  all, 
His  mercy  the  whole  earth  doth  span  ; 

He  whispers,  'mid  our  days  of  toil, 
Immortal  life  belongs  to  man  ! 


THE   OLD   CHURCH. 

OH  spare  the  old  familiar  church, 
The  hallowed  shrine  of  former  days, 

Where  our  departed  fathers  met 

To  worship  God  with  prayer  and  praise. 

Lift  not  thine  arm  to  strike  it  down  ; 

Its  walls  are  vocal  with  their  breath  ; 
Their  contrite  sighs  may  still  be  heard, 

Though  deep  their  slumber  be  in  death. 

Their  shades  are  still  in  those  dim  aisles ; 

Warm  eloquence  yet  echoes  there ! 
Like  odor  from  the  dewy  flowers 

Long  lingering  on  the  evening  air. 

The  morning  call  for  worship  came 
From  out  that  modest  steeple  bell ; 

And  rosy  youth  and  thoughtful  age 
The  listening  audience  came  to  swell. 

'T  is  true  it  may  have  passed  its  day, 
In  Fashion's  wary,  changeful  eye ; 

But  haply  there  some  soul  anew 

Was  born  to  wear  a  crown  on  high. 


THE   OLD    CHURCH.  17 

To  him,  what  are  the  classic  fanes 
Where  Caesar's  sceptre  bore  its  sway ; 

Dearer  that  hallowed  temple  far, 
Than  glory's  fragments  in  decay. 

Spare,  then,  the  dear  familiar  church, 
By  all  the  ties  the  heart  that  bind ;  • 

Oh  give  it  place  on  God's  great  earth, 

Its  walls  our  father's  prayers  have  shrined! 

When  from  afar  the  truant  foot, 

Back  to  old  scenes  resumes  its  track, 

How  homelike  still  will  be  the  spot 
To  lure  the  wandering  footstep  back. 


JOHNNY   GRAY,   MY    EARLY 
INSTRUCTOR. 

HE  was,  forsooth,  a  lordly  Scot, 
Of  noble  mein  and  visage  grand  ; 

But  who,  for  unrequited  love, 
Forsook,  alas!   his  native  land. 

A  lonely  man,  indeed,  was  he, 

Of  more  than  common  grace  possessed  ; 
But  dark  misfortune  o'er  him  swept, 

And  crushed  the  hopes  within  his  breast. 

Ah  !  sure  within  his  stricken  mind, 
Some  deep  emotions  oft  awoke  ; 

Some  memories  sweet  of  early  days 
Its  musing  spell  of  silence  broke. 

Could  he  forget  his  father-land, 
The  home  of  his  ancestral  line,  — 

Its  burnie  bright  and  bonny  fleurs, 
He  loved  sae  weel  in  auld  lang  syne  ? 

But  what  were  a'  the  simmer  fleurs, 
Or  cheerfu'  birds  of  love  that  sang, 

Or  a'  the  sweets  of  childhood's  hame, 
When  tortured  with  a  hopeless  pang  ? 


JOHNNY  GRAY,  MY  EARLY  INSTRUCTOR    19 

Ah !   strange,  mysterious  power !   how  deep 
Within  his  heart  thy  thorn  was  prest ! 

How  fresh  the  memory  of  his  love, 
How  dwelt  her  image  in  his  breast! 

My  early  days  beneath  his  care 

In  vivid  light  return  to  me ; 
And  when  perchance  I  did  excel, 

How  pleased  he  always  seemed  to  be. 

In  storms  his  passions  spent  their  raid ; 

How,  then,  my  bosom  quailed  with  fear; 
But  when  to  rest  the  storm  was  laid, 

How  sunny  did  his  face  appear. 

Poor  man  !   cut  off  from  kindred  ties, 
Far  from  his  highland  grove  and  glade, 

Far  from  a  kindred's  fond  caress, 
The  debt  of  Nature  he  has  paid. 


INSCRIBED   TO  ALPHONSE   DE 
LAMARTINE. 

WHEN  Time's  oblivious  march  shall  steal 

The  trophies  proud  from  shrines  of  art ; 
When  uncreated  thrones  shall  reel, 

And  from  the  kingdoms  e'er  depart, — 
'T  is  thine  to  live,  O  Lamartine ! 

To  swell  the  tomes  of  Gallia's  fame,  — 
To  consecrate  the  patriot's  shrine, 

As  Freedom  chants  thy  deathless  name. 

More  gently  deal,  O  sovereign  Time, 

With  him  whose  lyre  the  world  shall  keep ; 
Whose  thoughts  with  pathos  so  sublime, 

Bids  minstrels  list,  and  kneel,  and  weep ! 
Through  odorous  paths,  without  a  sigh, 

Serene  be  all  his  splendid  way ; 
More  beauteous  grow  his  sunset  sky, 

To  melt  in  Heaven's  own  endless  day. 


VALENTINE. 

TO    MR.    ALFRED    TENNYSON,   POET    LAUREATE    OF 
HER    MAJESTY. 

THOU  Laureate  Bard  of  Albion's  Isle, 

Thy  harp  I  've  heard  across  the  sea ; 
And  here,  beneath  the  sunset's  smile. 

Will  weave  a  valentine  for  thee.« 
From  fresh  young  lands,  my  wandering  Muse  — 

Where  dark  eternal  forests  dim, 
Where  Flora  sleeps  in  prairie  dews, 

And  west  winds  chant  their  evening  hymn  — 
Laurels  would  braid  of  richest  hue 

The  breeze  of  heaven  has  ever  fanned, 
Which  to  thy  genius  are  but  due, 

Thou  poet  of  our  father-land. 
Fair  England,  on  the  deep  enthroned! 

We  love  her  good  and  gracious  Queen  ; 
We  love  her  harps,  immortal  toned, 

Her  homes  of  happiness  serene ! 
Her  ivied  castles  scathed  by  time, 

In  pictures  on  my  vision  fall ; 
And  still  I  hear  the  curfew  chime, — 
Still  see  the  knights  of  Arthur's  Hall. 


22  VALENTINE. 

Sing  on,  beloved  of  all  the  Nine, 

Add  glory  to  thy  country's  fame ; 
And  she  will  rear  for  thee  a  shrine, 

And  sacred  keep  thine  honored  name. 
If  from  thy  proud  and  beauteous  Isle 

Thy  feet  perchance  should  wander  far, 
Then  guide  them  where  these  sunsets  smile, 

Away  beneath  the  Evening  Star. 

Feb.  14,  1860. 


THE   EVENING   RAIN. 

PLAINTIVELY  echoes  the  evening  rain, 
Dropping,  dropping,  from  leaf  to  leaf, 

From  shutter  to  shutter,  from  pane  to  pane, 
As  if  the  city  were  full  of  grief. 

The  hurrying  tramp  of  human  feet 
Is  clinking  along,  but  growing  brief, 

Till  faint  in  distance  it  dies  away, 

Leaving  the  sound  of  rain  on  the  leaf. 

So  on  the  spirit  fresh  tear-drops  fall, 

Dropping,  dropping,  from  string  to  string ; 

Loved  ones  have  gone  at  their  country's  call, 
And  deeply  have  left  the  parting  sting. 

Never  again,  while  the  hills  are  green, 
Or  whispering  wave  flits  over  the  sea, 

Or  bird  to  its  loving   mate  shall  sing, 

O  woman  !   shall  thine  come  back  to  thee ! 

Yes,  the  light  of  thy  home  shall  be  gone ; 

Sad  and  trembling  thy  footstep  shall  be ; 
And  thy  babe,  as  it  catches  thy  moan, 

Will  nestle  itself  closer  to  thee. 


24  THE  EVENING  RAIN. 

Crushing  in  anguish  thy  gnawing  pain, 

Thou  'It  kiss  thy  babe  with  a  fond  embrace, 

While  tears  flow  down  like  the  evening  rain, 
Dropping,  dropping,  on  its  beautiful  face. 

By  the  hopes  that  were  plighted  in  love,— 
By  that  babe  which  in  sorrow  thou  'st  borne,  — 

By  those  whispers  that  come  from  above,  — 
Firm  to  stand  by  his  country  he  'd  sworn. 

His  form  they  've  wrapped  in  the  starry  shroud 
And  stripes  that  his  fathers  loved  so  well, 

And  laid  him  beneath  the  moistened  sod, 
While  the  niurm'ring  rain  of  evening  fell. 


CHILDHOOD   O'ER   ME   FONDLY 
LINGERS. 

CHILDHOOD  o'er  me  fondly  lingers,  — 
Wraps  again  her  weary  child ; 

Brings  the  scenes  which  oft  I  courted, 
Brings  the  faces  once  that  smiled, — 

Brings  the  fields  and  groves  in  beauty, 
With  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 

'Midst  the  tall  trees  sweetly  nestled 
In  the  fairest  spot  of  earth. 

Near  the  old  green  sloping  orchard, 
Filled  with  apple  blooms  in  spring, 

Made  a  Paradise  of  splendor, 
Poets  well  might  love  to  sing. 

Down  where  beechen  shadows  gather, 
Where  the  woodland  matins  rung, 

Quivering  in  delicious  music, 

Deep  the  twilight  wood  among  — 

Ran  tfce  little  crystal  brooklet, 

Singing  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
Gurgling  past  its  widening  margins, 

Where  the  wild  flower  dipt  its  head. 


26       CHILDHOOD   O'ER  ME  FONDLY  LINGERS. 

Oh,  't  were  worth  the  half  a  life-time, 
One  brief  hour  again  to  see,  — 

One  bright  hour  of  golden  childhood, 
By  that  stream  beneath  that  tree. 

There  I  heard  JEolian  echoes 
Quavering  in  the  forest's  nod, 

Hymning  grand,  impassioned  anthems 
In  the  poetry  of  God. 

Nature's  hand  in  beauty  planted 
Rarest  flowers  within  that  shade ; 

There  the  dark-eyed  forest  maiden 
Came  to  deck  her  jetty  braid. 

She  hath  gone  —  hath  gone  forever ! 

Time  has  rung  her  fated  knell ! 
So  my  memory,  too,  will  vanish 

From  the  scenes  within  that  dell. 

Round  the  poor  heart's  broken  altars 
Memory  broods  with  tender  care ; 

Flowers  from  childhood's  meadows  gathered, 
Oft  she  brings  and  offers  there. 


THE   OLD   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

DEEP  embosomed  in  the  valley, 
The  old  school-house  may  be  seen, 

Standing  by  the  shining  waters 
Coursing  down  the  meadow  green. 

Running  through  luxuriant  pastures, 
Eddying  round  each  verdant  knoll, 

Till,  retreating  through  the  alders, 
Sweet  its  murmuring  waters  stole. 

Jocund  childhood  there  assembled, 
Skilled  in  verbs,  but  not  in  Greek; 

Beauteous  ones  with  vermeil  blossoms 
Flushed  upon  the  velvet  cheek ; 

Like  the  flowers  the  frosts  have  blighted 
In  the  morn  of  blushing  May, 

One  by  one  from  out  that  number 
Like  the  leaves  have  dropped  away. 

Now  the  tufted  weed  is  growing 

Close  beside  that  school-house  door  ; 

All  that  throng  have  left  its  portals,— 
They,  as  then,  return  no  more. 


28  THE  OLD  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

Childhood  gone,  no  more  returneth  ; 

Hill  and  tree  resume  their  bloom ; 
Once  the  lamp  of  childhood  burneth,  — 

Only  once,  until  the  tornb. 

Winter  snows,  and  flowers  of  summer, 
Gliding  stream,  and  verdant  hill, 

Still  surround  in  rural  beauty 

Where  that  school-house  lingers  still. 


NATIONAL   HYMN. 

COME,  freemen,  look  with  kindling  eye 

On  this  fair  land  our  fathers  gave ; 
Beneath  its  turf  their  ashes  lie, 

Its  bosom  shrines  their  sacred  grave. 
Hope  of  the  earth !    Home  of  the  free ! 

Here  the  oppressed  for  refuge  fly  ! 
And  here,  beneath  its  sheltering  tree, 

They  pray  to  live,  and  hope  to  die. 

Hope  of  the  world  !    Home  of  the  free  ! 
God  bless  our  land  forever  ! 

Our  rivers  bold,  impulsive  swell 

And  chime  the  music  of  the  brave  ; 
They  lave  the  shores  where  freemen  dwell, 

The  land  we  all  would  die  to  save ! 
Our  monarch  mountains,  towering  high, 

Are  pillars  to  the  throne  of  blue  : 
Beneath,  broad  prairies  blooming  lie, 

Where  lucid  waters  murmur  through. 

Hope  of  the  world !   Pride  of  the  free  ! 
God  bless  our  land  forever ! 

Above  us  in  bright  honors  float 

Our  beauteous  stripes  and  stars  in  blue; 


30  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

And  thrilling  swells  the  bugle  note 

When  borne  aloft  by  freeman  true : 
From  death's  grim  field,  by  valor  bought, 

This  sacred  pledge  of  freedom  came ; 
To  us  in  patriot  gore  was  brought 
This  emblem  of  our  nation's  fame,  — 

The  stripes  and  stars !   The  stripes  and 

stars ! 
God  bless  our  land  forever  ! 

Father  !  look  kindly  from  on  high, 

On  this  our  fondly  cherished  land ; 
Bind  close  our  hearts  in  freedom's  tie, 

And  hold  us  in  thy  mighty  hand  ; 
Let  strains  of  freedom  earth  awake, 

And  let  our  banner  proudly  wave, 
Till  age  shall  earth's  foundations  shake, 

And  time  itself  shall  find  a  grave ! 

Land  of  the  free  !   Home  of  the  brave ! 
God  bless  our  land  forever! 


TO   THE    DELAWARE   RIVER. 

THOU  brightly  flowing  Delaware, 
Whose  waters  kiss  the  hill  and  lea, 

And,  sweeping  onward,  wind  afar 

To  mingle  with  the  deep  blue  sea, — 

How  strange  the  scenes  that  skirt  thy  brink, 
How  beautiful  they  seem  combined ! 

Bright  Autumn's  hues  their  splendor  link 
With  evergreens  that  tower  behind ! 

Thy  overhanging  rocks  sublime, 

Thy  wooded  hills  in  Autumn's  sheen, 

Their  sylvan  echoes  varied  chime, 
Are  parts  of  thy  impressive  scene. 

Oft  here,  the  wild  deer  on  thy  brink, 
From  yon  green  hillock's  sloping  side, 

Bent  down  its  graceful  neck  to  drink 
The  cooling  waters  of  thy  tide. 

Forms  queenly  by  thy  margin  strayed, — 
With  foot  light-moccasin'd  they  came, — 

Whose  jetty  eyes  like  lightning  played 
Glances  of  Love's  bewitching  flame. 


32  TO   THE  DELAWARE  RIVER. 

The  dusky  children  of  the  wild 

Say  Wequehhalah  owned  thy  shores: 

A  noble  chief,  alas !   beguiled,  — 
And  memory  still  his  fate  deplores. 

Wayula  here  may  oft  have  played,  — 
Wayula,  daughter  of  that  chief,  — 

Here,  by  thy  margin  careless  strayed, 
Nor  dreamed  her  childhood's  bitter  grief. 

Down  yon  green  vale  the  council  fire 
With  fearful  flame  may  oft  have  burned, 

And  war  whoops  rung  with  thunder  dire, 
Ere  foe  on  foe  the  battle  turned. 

Thy  caverns  many  a  tomb  may  be 
Of  thy  rude  children  now  forgot, 

Who  rushed  on  death  from  ills  to  free, 
That  bliss  beyond  might  be  their  lot. 

Poor  victims !    their  untutored  minds 

Dreamed  fondly  of  some  brighter  shore,— 

Some  fairy  isle,  or  flowery  land, 

And  death  the  spirit's  welcome  door. 

Roll  on,  thou  shining  Delaware, 
Long  consecrate  this  quiet  vale ; 

Glide  on,  through  plain  and  wood  afar, 
And  tell  thine  own  historic  tale. 

Glide  on  to  yon  eternal  deep, 

And  beauteous  isles  of  ocean  lave ; 


TO   THE  DELAWARE  RIVER.  33 

But  oh  !   thy  song  of  freedom  keep 
To  teach  the  everlasting  wave,  — 

Till  echoed  back  from  eastern  thrones, 
From  every  isle  that  gems  the  sea, 

From  every  spot  where  slavery  moans, 
Or  base  oppression  bows  the  knee. 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

WRITTEN   UNDER    A   PAINTING    BY   THE    AUTHOR 

IN  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

OFTTIMES  from  memory's  chords  shall  break 
Those  melting  notes  forever  dear, 

And  in  my  heart  for  thee  awake 

The  scenes  when  thou,  my  friend,  wert  near,  — 

When  kind  affection's  sweet  control 

Guided  the  current  of  thy  soul. 

The  flowers  that  Nature's  fields  illume 
Are  transient  as  the  summer's  breath ; 

But  friendships  may  in  beauty  bloom 
And  smile  around  the  couch  of  death. 

Such  emblems  let  those  blossoms  be 

My  pencil  wove,  my  friend,  for  thee. 


OLD  IRONSIDES. 

OLD  IRONSIDES  !   thy  giant  ribs, 
From  our  primeval  forests  made, 

Withstood  the  bolts  Old  England  hurled 
With  all  her  boasted  cannonade. 

Ha !    still  the  gallant  ship  thou  art ! 

None  braver  ever  swam  the  deep: 
And  oh,  it  nerves  my  beating  heart, 

To  see  thy  form  the  waters  sweep ! 

Dear  to  our  Union  !   brave  old  ship ! 

Pride  of  our  navies,  broad  and  tall ; 
Oh  never  let  a  foeman  slip 

Across  thy  cannon's  fiery  wall  — 

But  dauntless  face  a  world  of  braves, 
As  thou  didst  face  our  father-land  ; 

Lest  we  should  crouch  as  abject  slaves, 
And  yield  the  soil  where  freemen  stand. 

Ere  closed  the  struggles  of  that  scene, 
What  conflicts  didst  thou  fearless  face ! 

Thy  iron  ribs  the  billows  leapt, 

And  years  of  triumph  proudly  graced. 


36  OLD  IRONSIDES. 

How  grand  aloft  thy  colors  float, 
And  like  an  eagle  cut  the  air : 

The  stripes  and  stars  our  fathers  bought, 
And  glory  marks  them  everywhere. 

Now  when  beneath  the  turf  they  sleep, 
Those  dear  departed  fathers  brave, 

Our  pride  of  navies  let  us  keep 
To  tell  their  victories  on  the  wave. 


SOFTENED   LIGHTS   AFFECTION 
BRINGETH. 

SOFTENED  lights  affection  bringeth 

From  the  hours  where  shadows  lie, 
Like  the  golden  sunset  glowing 

Out  from  clouds  along  the  sky ; 
Like  the  soothing  air  of  evening 

Breathing  peace  upon  the  hours, 
Stealing,  while  the  dews  are  falling, 

Fragrant  odors  from  the  flowers. 

Like  to  yonder  calm  horizon 

Sending  up  its  mellow  hue 
Far  above  the  clouds  that  darken, 

Melting  in  the  sky  of  blue,  — 
So  above  depressing  shadows, 

Oft  affections  fondly  play, 
Stretching  where  no  shadows  enter, 

Where  't  is  one  eternal  day. 


FREEDOM. 

All  men  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain  unalien- 
able  rights.  —  JEFFERSON. 

THE  winds  of  heaven  are  sweeping  free, 
They  come  and  go  at  God's  decree ; 
Suns  and  bright  worlds  are  lit  on  high 
To  gild  the  dusky  evening  sky ; 
Streamlets  unceasing  wander  on 
In  silvery  light  beneath  the  sun ; 
Clouds  free  in  space  forever  roll, 
And  only  yield  to  Heaven's  control ; 
Old  Ocean's  everlasting  tide 
Has  rolled  its  chainless  billows  wide, 
Since  first  the  firmament  on  high 
From  chaos  rose  a  beauteous  sky, 
Sending  forth  one  eternal  chime, — 
This  sacred  truth,  to  latest  time: 
He  who  the  heavens  holds  with  a  span, 
Gave  Freedom's  rights  to  every  man  ! 

The  very  air  with  music  rings; 
'T  is  Freedom's  harp  with  million  strings ; 
Melodious  birds  are  soaring  blest,  — 
They  woo,  and  sing,  and  build  their  nest, 


FREEDOM.  39 

And,  knit  in  love,  their  nestlings  raise, 

To  fill  the  air  with  Freedom's  lays. 

Blossoms  expand  and  scent  the  air ; 

Insects  and  flowers  no  fetters  wear ; 

The  sun,  impartial,  scatters  light, 

All  Nature  warms,  and  cheers  the  sight; 

The  dew  refreshes  leaf  and  flower, 

Each  drinks  its  sweets  at  midnight  hour; 

And  waving  buds  and  nodding  bells 

Assent  to  truth  all  Nature  tells  : 

He  who  the  heavens  holds  with  a  span, 

Gave  Freedom's  rights  to  every  man ! 

The  mighty  orbs  this  truth  maintain,  — 
Enforcing  loud  in  language  plain,  — 
Freedom  is  Nature's  primal  law, 
Instinctive  as  the  breath  we  draw. 
The  earth  its  endless  circuit  runs  ; 
Planets  on  planets,  suns  on  suns, 
Stretched  limitless  to  human  eye, 
Far  in  the  depths  of  ether  lie ; 
Huge  worlds  o'er  worlds  majestic  go, 
And  Freedom's  power  in  splendor  show ! 
Each  round  each  other,  round  the  sun, 
Through  space,  through  ages  these  have  run! 
In  all  their  splendor,  all  their  awe, 
Proclaiming  Nature's  primal  law : 
He  who  the  heavens  holds  with  a  span, 
Gave  Freedom's  rights  to  every  man! 


40  FREEDOM. 

Then  who  shall  dare  in  chains  to  bind 
The  freedom  of  the  immortal  mind ; 
To  crush  the  instincts  burning  there, 
Kindled  by  God's  own  loving  care ; 
Bind  man  to  wear  the  cursed  chain 
That  mocks  our  glory,  tells  our  shame ; 
Doom  the  crushed  soul  in  bonds  to  sigh, 
A  slave  to  live,  a  slave  to  die ! 
Oh  by  the  blood  our  fathers  shed 
On  yonder  heights,1  by  Freedom  led  ; 
Oh  by  the  sacred  gift  they  gave, 
Sealed  by  their  blood,  their  love,  the  grave 
Oh  by  that  light  born  in  the  mind, 
Shall  man  to  slavery  be  consigned? 
He  who  the  heavens  holds  with  a  span, 
Claims  Freedom's  rights  for  every  man  ! 

i  Bunker  Hill. 


THE   QUILL   PEN. 

WHY  laugh  at  my  using  the  old-fashioned  pen, 
With  its   smooth  crystal   tube  and  feathers  of 
snow? 

'T  is  the  best  now  in  use  by  the  children  of  men, 
And  loved  by  the  Muses  in  days  long  ago. 

How  easy  it  glides  on  the  beautiful  sheet ! 
Like  the   tide   of  smooth  waters   it  seems   to 

delight ! 

And  thoughts  flow  along  in  such  numbers  com- 
plete, 
'T  is  a  pleasure  to  use  it  whenever  we  write.* 

We  list  to  its  murmur  of  low  liquid  notes, 
Like  the  musical  hum  of  the  wild  summer  bee, 

Till  fancy  in  scenes  of  new  ecstasy  floats, 

And  breathes  like   the  wind  that  comes  over 
the  sea. 

The  heart  weighs  its  anchor  of  loneliness  sad ; 

The  glory  of  Nature  is  rendered  complete ; 
In  robes  fresh  unfolded,  all  splendidly  clad, 

Creation  was  never  more  lovely  or  sweet. 


42  THE    QUILL  PEN. 

Of  all  the  known  mediums  that  bring  forth  to 
view 

The  wonderful  works  of  the  infinite  mind,  — 
Of  fashions  invented,  no  matter  how  new, 

'T  is  surely  the  best  one  that  mortals  can  find. 

Sweet  pipe  of  the  bards,  which  poets  have  tuned  ! 
Whose   minstrelsy   rolls   down    the   current  of 

time ! 

The  light  of  whose  genius  our  path  has  illumed, 
And  shines  on   the   soul  with  its  touches  sub- 
lime ! 

I  mourn  for  the  changes  that  fashion  has    made 
In  many  good  customs  as  well  as  the  pen ; 

For  genius  may  wander  to  weep  in  the  shade, 
And  science  grow  dim  from  the  races  of  men. 

Alas !   my  poor  relic  I  often  survey, 

And  sadness  broods  heavily  over  my  heart ; 

Like  things  that  are  mortal  it  wasteth  away, — 
Like   friends   that   are    severed,   ere   long   we 
must   part. 


PENTHEOS. 

WHAT  's  the  use  of  always  trying 
To  be  something  while  we  live, 

If  we  must  be  weeping,  sighing, 
For  the  wrongs  which  others  give, 

Till  we  faint  by  beds  of  roses, 

Wrung  with  grief  and  pale  with  care, 

And  the  earth  no  spot  discloses 
That  may  shield  us  from  despair? 

Forced  to  smile,  the  tear  to  cover, 
Gushing  from  a  breaking  heart ; 

Striving  woe  by  art  to  smother, 
Till  the  life-strings  seem  to  part! 

Blasted  hopes  and  torn  affections 
Threatening  chaos  in  the  mind, 

Brooding  o'er  its  sad  reflections, 

Telling  what  those  hopes  enshrined! 

Can  it  be  that  He  who  made  us, 
Life  imparted  by  his  breath, 

Under  all  these  woes  hath  laid  us, 
Binding  on  us  until  death  ? 


44  PEN  THE  OS. 

Weeping,  loving,  doing  duty, 

Struggling  on  life's  troubled  sea, 

Looking  for  a  world  of  beauty 
O'er  its  waves,  from  sorrow  free  ! 


Touch,  oh  touch  thy  harp  more  lightly, 
Minstrel,  sorrowing,  sad,  and  pale  ; 

God  has  made  thy  path  unsightly, 
Lest  thy  clinging  heart  should  fail. 

Life  to  thee  was  not  imparted 
Just  to  suffer  pain  and  woe, — 

Just  to  smile  when  broken-hearted, 
Lest  the  world  thy  ills  should  know. 

All  of  bliss  and  earthly  glory, 
All  that  filled  a  human  breast, 

Only  served,  when  age  was  hoary, 
Life's  mistaken  views  to  test. 

Yonder  heavens  a  star  revealing, 
Shines  upon  thy  darkened  lot, 

In  a  radiant  glory  stealing, 
Emblem  of  some  blessed  spot. 

Hope  like  that  thy  heart  should  lighten, 
Help  thee  on  to  breast  the  wave, 

Till  thy  wrongs  are  all  forgotten 
In  thy  slumber  in  the  grave. 


PEN  THE  OS. 

Love  and  pray  and  do  thy  duty, 
Breast  awhile  life's  troubled  sea; 

Far  beyond,  a  world  of  beauty 
Lies  eternally  for  thee. 


SONG  OF   THE   ROBIN. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  FIRST  SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN 
IN  EARLY  SPRING,  IN  THE  OLD  ELM-TREE  IN 
ESSEX  STREET,  BOSTON. 

OH  !   't  is  the  old  familiar  lay 

I  used  to  hear,  while  yet  a  child, 

In  deep  green  orchards  far  away, 

When  Nature  in  her  spring-time  smiled. 

Here  back  it  brings  provincial  days  ; 

How  histories  cluster  round  this  tree, 
When  titled  rulers,  legend  says, 

With  wig  and  ruff  sat  under  thee 

And  quaffed  the  goblet,  big  with  ease, 
Till  eventide  the  day  had  closed,  — 

Till    stars  came  out  upon  the  seas, 
And  bird  and  beast  in  sleep  reposed. 

Castles  in  splendor  proudly  raised, 

Imagination  bade  them  see, 
Bright,  while  the  golden  goblet  blazed, 

While  drank  beneath  that  greenwood  tree. 


SONG    OF   THE  ROBIN.  47 

It  was  their  lordships'  social  place  ; 

At  sunset  'iieath  that  shadowy  tree, 
They  themes  discussed,  with  jovial  grace, 

Those  titled  ones,  with  princely  fee. 

Ere  long  our  youthful  country  reeled,  — 
Tri-mountain  labored  in  her  throes, — 

And  vengeance,  with  opposing  shock, 
Threw  fetters  back  from  soulless  foes. 

Never  again  that  elm  beneath, 

Those  titled  lords,  with  princely  fee, 

The  goblet  quaffed  at  summer  eve, 
Till  stars  came  out  upon  the  sea. 

Yet,  still,  thou  'rt  here  a  witness  old,' 
Of  times  and  deeds  now  quite  forgot  ; 

Long  yet  may'st  keep  thy  giant  hold 
A  shelter  on  the  same  old  spot; 

Long  may  the  redbreast  matins  sing 
Upon  that  same  ancestral  tree, — 

Scenes  long  agone  to  memory  bring, 
As  it  has  brought  them  now  to  me. 


THE   FRIENDS   THAT   LOVE   ME. 

OH  LET  me  see  the  friends  I  love 
More  close  around  me  clinging  ; 

As  waves  successive  onward  move 
My  life  its  way  is  winging. 

And  faces  grave  and  faces  gay 

My  busy  footsteps  meeting, 
Like  me  will  pass  from  earth  away, 

Like  mine,  their  breath  is  fleeting. 

The  wavelets  fondly  float  in  love ; 

The  clouds  embrace  in  flying  ; 
The  glorious  stars  that  shine  above 

In  folds  of  love  are  lying. 

Each  little  flower  that  decks  my  way, 
Each  blade  of  grass  upspringing, 

Each  living  rill  in  careless  play 
Along  the  meadow  singing  — 

All  breathe  a  voice  of  gentle  love, 
Which  on  the  heart  is  falling, 

Like  spirit  whispers  from  above 
That  seem  together  calling. 


THE  FRIENDS   THAT  LOVED  ME.  49 

And  listening,  wrapt  in  silent  thought, 

It  thus  conveys  a  meaning ; 
As  time  recedes,  thy  life  is  short, 

And  but  an  idle  dreaming. 

And  thou  shalt  fade,  as  fades  the  flower ; 

Beneath  the  turf  lie  sleeping 
Thy  friends,  who,  through  life's  transient  hour, 

Their  holy  guard  were  keeping. 

Oh  let  me  see  the  friends  I  love 

More  close  around  me  clinging ; 
A.S  waves  successive  onward  move, 

My  years  their  way  are  winging. 


THE   HOME   OF   THE    POET. 

IN  a  sweet  little  cot  in  the  deep  green  wood, 

Let  the  home  of  the  poet  be ; 
Where    the    bubbling    streams,    in    a    garrulous 
mood, 

Wind  carelessly  on  to  the  sea ; 

Where  wild  roses  open  their  delicate  hues, 
And  tarry  the  long  summer  time ; 

Where  Nature's   green   carpet  with  flow'rets  she 

strews, 
And  jessamines  everywhere  climb. 

And  there,  far  away  from  all  turmoil  and  care, 

In  that  quiet  and  rural  retreat, 
There  let  him  live  on  the  simplest  of  fare, 

And  drink  from  the  rivulet  sweet. 

Let  the  prairie  wild-flowers  yield  up  to  the  bee 

Their  sweetest  of  honey  for  food ; 
From  the  garden   of  Nature,  the   plant,  and  the 
tree, 

Let  the  strength  of  the  bard  be  renewed. 


THE  HOME  OF   THE  POET.  51 

And  when  his  last   song   on  Death's  confines  is 
poured, 

This  one  simple  boon  let  him  crave: 
To  sleep  by  his  cot  in  the  deep  sighing  wood, 

With  his  harp  lying  over  his  grave. 


TO   HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW, 

AFTER    READING    THE    COURTSHIP    OF    MILES 
STANDISH. 

POET,  your  minstrelsy  is  sweet, 

Refined,  I  ween,  and  not  outlandish ; 

A  scene  of  olden  time  complete, 

Of  Plymouth  Rock  and  Captain  Standish. 

Again  we  see  the  forests  tall, 

With  giant  arms  together  braided  ; 

And  tribes  of  red  men,  great  and  small, 
Which  from  the  earth  long  since  have  faded. 

Miles  Standish  there  immortal  stands, 
With  bushy  beard  of  silver  color ; 

With  sword  and  gun  in  trusty  hands, 
A  little  man,  and  full  of  valor. 

Still  sitting  at  her  spinning-wheel, 
We  see  the  beauteous  maid  Priscilla ; 

And  singing  psalms  with  pious  zeal, 
A  freshly  blossomed  English  Lilly. 

Upon  the  hill  beside  the  deep, 

Beneath  the  green  wheat,  solemn  sighing, 


TO  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW.  53 

His  Rose,  Miles  Standish  lives  to  weep, 
Who  there  in  death's  long  sleep  is  lying. 

The  man  who  learned  of  war  the  trade, 
And  battles  fought  but  for  the  winning, 

Essays  to  wed  the  pilgrim  maid 
Priscilla,  at  her  wheel  a-spinning. 

Oh  had  he  known  the  wooing  art, 

Love's  tactics  might  have  well  succeeded ; 

Miles  Standish  gained  Priscilla's  heart,  — 
His  maxim  proved  was  all  he  needed. 


THE   LAST  VOICES   OF   AUTUMN. 

COME  out,  thou  weary  denizen,  and  take 
A  thoughtful  look  at  Nature,  ere  the  trees 
Shall  lose  their  green  in  the  commingling  shades 
Of  gorgeous  wavy  light  and  purple, 
Brightening  everywhere  around  thee,  stealing 
Unconsciously  away  the  summer  tints, 
As  thy  years  steal  unconsciously  from  thee. 

The  flower  yet  lingers,  and  will  bend  toward 
Thy  gaze  a  look  of  courtesy  and  love, 
Without  a  touch  of  the  autumnal  breath 
Upon  its  petals  ;   rills  yet  trickle  down 
Their  pebbly  beds,  sending  up  liquid  notes 
In  mournful  cadence  with  the  sounds  with  which 
The  air  is  rife  —  the  lonely  chirp  of  birds ; 
The  liquid  whisper  of  the  ocean  wave, 
Sending  its  tremulous  tide  upon  the  shore 
So  faintly,  that  obeyance  to  the  law 
Of  Nature  seems  too  much,  too  harsh  to  give, 
Save  in  a  blended,  low,  pathetic  tone, 
Which  echoes  back  more  mournful  still  from  hill 
And  forests,  till  the  air  we  breathe  is  filled 
With  one  long  dirge  of  death  and  desolation, 
Which  into  the  heart  will  send  its  echo, 


THE  LAST   VOICES   OF  AUTUMN.  55 

Wakening  chords  of  sympathy  untouched 
Before,  till  a  serenity  so  sweet 
Comes  gently  hovering  o'er  its  care-worn  strings, 
Tnat  life's  dark  heavy  woes  roll  back  to  give 
A  glance  of  heavenly  peace  into  the  soul. 

Lo !   over  Nature  hangs  a  softened  haze  ; 
A  mellow  beauty  rests  o'er  all  the  scene. 
How  dreamily  it  lies  upon  the  glassy  wave, 
Like  Hope,  that  broodeth  o'er  the  soul  in  death, 
Giving  it  peace  ere  it  depart  from  earth. 
What  solemn  thoughts  pervade  the  mind 
That  looks  upon  the  last  fair  leaves  and  flowers 
That  tarry  yet,  but,  loosening  from  their  hold, 
Will,  in  a  few  brief  days,  on  tree  or  turf 
Be  seen  no  more,  but  swept  away  by  winds, 
And  lost  forever  to  the  gazing  eye. 

And   stay   thy  footsteps   'neath   the   green  old 

trees 

That  skirt  thy  city  toward  yon  setting  sun,  — 
Trees  that  thy  fathers  walked  beneath,  and  stopt 
To  meditate  on  the  autumnal  change 
Before  them,  as  before  thee  now.     The  leaves 
Were  dropping  silently  and  slow, 
And  Nature  wore  the  same  autumnal  flush  ; 
So  shall  thy  children  come,  as  comest  thou, 
To  meditate  upon  the  fading  leaves  and  flowers, 
When  thou  art  mouldering  in  the  silent  earth. 


THE  LEAVES  ON  THE  STREAM. 

FLOW  on,  flow  on,  thou  classic  stream, 

In  quiet  beauty  to  the  sea, 
While  on  thy  brink  I  pause  to  think, 

When  crossing  homeward  o'er  the  lea. 

Thy  borders  fringed  with  drooping  flowers, 
In  tangled  plumes  of  snowy  white, 

Hang  o'er  thy  tide,  where  leaflets  ride 
In  slow  procession  from  the  sight,  — 

But  once  were  seen,  of  tender  green, 

Unfolding  on  the  forest  tree; 
And  wild  birds  sang  till  Nature  rang 

And  rocked  the  boughs  with  jubilee. 

They  all  on  their  successive  stage 
Their  work  of  life  have  nobly  done, 

Till  Autumn's  breath,  as  still  as  death, 
Hath  borne  them  here,  and  one  by  one 

They  follow  on.  None  knoweth  where 
This  little  stream  is  seen  to  flow  : 

Some  river  deep,  where  vessels  sweep, 
May  waft  them  where  the  corals  grow, 


THE  LEAVES    ON  THE  STREAM.  57 

To  line  some  mermaid's  mossy  bed ; 

Or  weave  a  sea-bird's  downy  nest ; 
Or  some  strange  shore  perchance  explore, 

And  guide  some  foundering  bark  to  rest. 

And  brighter  grows  the  golden  braid 
Around  ripe  Autumn's  blushing  cheek ; 

With  solemn  sounds  the  air  resounds,  — 
Of  death  to  man  they  solemn  speak. 

And  he  shall  drop  like  these  fair  leaves, 
Perhaps  before  his  autumn  day ; 

Upon  Death's  tide,  all  dark  and  wide, 
Be  borne  from  Life's  bright  scenes  away. 

Thus  all  who  dwell  upon  the  earth, 
Like  forest  leaves  shall  disappear,  — 

Like  clouds  that  fly  athwart  the  sky, 

Take  one  brief  gaze,  —  lo  !  none  are  here. 


THE     PROMISE. 

"I  will  give  you  rest." 

O  THOU  with  heart  o'erburdened  with  its  feeling, 
Weary  with  earth,  and  sighing  with  its  care, 

Go  thou  to  God,  thy  bitterness  revealing, 
Pour  out  the  fullness  of  thy  soul  in  prayer. 

He  to  thy  restless  spirit  lowly  bending, 
Will  listen  to  the  sighing  of  thy  soul ; 

Peace  to  thy  wounded  spirit  gently  sending, 
And  hope  of  bliss  that  earth  cannot  control. 

What  if  within  thy  sky  dark  shadows  hover,  — 
If  thou  hast  peace  with  God,  what  need  of  fear  ? 

If  trials  all  thy  pathway  thickly  cover, 

He    through   the    darkness  will   thy    presence 
cheer. 

What  if  life's  morn,  with  radiant  beauty  glowing, 
Spreads  out  her  golden  pinions  with  delight? 

Thy  breath  each  moment  from  its  shrine  is  go- 
ing* — 
Thy  morning  fading  in  the  gloom  of  night. 

All  that  is  earthly  changeth  —  fadeth! 
Hope,  beauty,  all  the  idols  that  we  love, 


THE  PROMISE.  59 

Like   brightest  tints   that  Nature's  pencil   shad- 

eth,  — 

Like   summer  flowers  or  leaves  in   Autumn's 
grove,  — 

The  bud  and  leaf,  in  beautiful  progression, 
Attain  the  end  for  them  at  first  designed ; 

Man  only  turned  away  from  that  perfection 
Which  God's  creation  everywhere  combined ! 

And  wand'ring  from  the  streams  where  once  he 

gathered 

Fair  Eden's  flowers,  with  angels  for  his  guide, 
How  from   his   Father's  love   his  heart  he  sev- 
ered, 
And  went  upon  the  world's  distracted  tide. 

But  God's  unchanging  promise  stands  forever ; 

Still  He  would  reason  with  the  troubled  soul, 
From  all  thy  bitterness  of  heart  deliver, 

And  make  thy  wounded  spirit  more  than  whole. 

When  gladness,  with  the  blushing  light  of  morn- 
ing* 

Or  holy  twilight  with  her  mantle  falls, 
Forever  comes  the  voice  thy  spirit  warning, 

And  woos  thine  ear  to  hear  its  gentle  calls. 

Then  go  to  Him,  thy  Maker  and  Redeemer, 
And  lowly  at  his  footstool  prostrate  kneel,  — 

His  aid  implore  to  guide  a  wretched  sinner, 
And  He  in  mercy  will  thy  spirit  heal. 


THE   WIND. 

THE  wind,  the  wind,  how  strange  its  way, 

A  miracle  't  will  ever  be,  — 
Whether  in  storm  or  gentlest  play, 

A  deep  unfathomed  mystery ! 

The  mighty  wind  that  chills  with  fear, 
The  softest  breeze  of  tropic  shore, 

So  strange  and  varied  doth  appear, 
It  mocks  our  philosophic  lore. 

Through  Eden's  fair  primeval  bowers 
With  beauteous  Eve  it  often  played, 

And  reveled  midst  the  blushing  flowers 
Almighty  fingers  there  had  made. 

With  dew-drops  dripping  from  its  hair, 
At  summer  eve  its  form  I  see; 

From  beds  of  roses  comes  to  bear 
Its  richest  incense  cup  to  me. 

And  then  it  mounts  some   leafy  bower, 
And  twitters  there  a  little  song 

We  love  to  hear  at  moonlight  hour, 
So  beautiful  it  steals  along. 


THE   WIND.  61 

Then  soaring  up  its  car  on  high, 

It  sits  where  thunder-storms  are  born, 

Holding  deep  council  in  the  sky, 
Amidst  its  ire  and  awful  scorn. 

And  lo !    descending  from  its  throne, 
It  tears  the  landscape  in  its  wrath,  — 

With  boding  darkness  swells  its  moan, 
And  desolation  fills  its  path. 

Again  it  comes  in  piteous  mien, 
With  frozen  tear-drop  in  its  eye ! 

And  knocks  upon  the  lattice-pane, 
Uttering  a  wild  and  mournful  cry ; 

Thence,  pinioned  on  its  buoyant  way, 

It  heaps  its  outstretched  wings  with  snow, 

And  doffs  its  whitened  robes  to  say, 
"  My  wintry  gems  I  've  come  to  show." 

Far,  far  it  mounts  on  Alpine  heights, 

Unwearied  on  its  ancient  wing, 
There,  midst  eternal  icy  grots, 

Its  wild  ^olian  harp  to  string. 

We  hail  it  from  blest  Araby, 

And  from  Aroma's  spicy  plains, 
When  Nature  springs  with  joyous  glee, 

And  bliss  throughout  creation  reigns. 

So  soft  its  breath,  so  kind  its  voice, 
The  flowers  in  wondrous  forms  unfold; 


62  THE   WIND. 

The  robin  sings,  the  lambs  rejoice, 
And  we  a  beauteous  world  behold ! 

Then  far  o'er  yonder  chainless  sea 
It  heaves  the  "ocean's  hoary  locks," 

And  oh  how  dire  its  song  will  be 
Amongst  the  cliffs  of  craggy  rocks. 

And  what  shall  be,  I  would  not  know  : 

Ah,  mariner,  thy  peril  see ! 
It  loves  to  sport  with  human  woe, 

And  make  an  unseen  grave  for  thee. 

The  wind,  the  wind,  how  strange  its  way, 

A  miracle  't  will  ever  be,  — 
Whether  in  storm  or  gentlest  play, 

A  deep,  unfathomed  mystery. 


MATERNAL   LOVE. 

MATERNAL  love !   purest  of  human  ties  ! 

Link  of  the  uncreated  chain  above ! 
Oh  who  shall  tell  what  in  its  bosom  lies, — 

The  holy  bosom  of  maternal  love ! 
It  lives  till  every  earthly  passion  dies, 

Then  binds  its  link  in  the  bright  chain  above. 
Sweet  shelterer !   where  Innocence  forever  flies, 
And  Youth  in  gentle  confidence  so  oft  relies. 


GLENVILLE. 

SWEET  Glenville  !   shall  my  Muse  essay  to  tell 
Of  beauteous  scenes  in  thine  own  tranquil  dell,  — 
Of  wildwood,  rocks,  and  trees  that  storms  defy, 
Where    summer   winds    breathe    low   their  mur- 

m'ring  sigh  ? 
O'er    slopes    that    sweetly    grace    thy   landscape 

wild, 

Nature  has  grouped  her  groves  and  fondly  smiled. 
There,  o'er  thy  winding  river's  glassy  side, 
Shades  the  huge  oak  in  all  its  stately  pride. 

Sweet  Glenville  !   in  thy  cool,  delightful  vale, 
The  warbling  songsters  breathe  their  gentle  tale. 
What  songs  like  these  from  Nature's  harps  that 

spring, 

When  tuned  to  symphony  is  every  string! 
Or  what  in  music  ever  gave  the  zest 
Like  that  from  Nature's  own  melodious  breast? 

What  inspiration  for  a  poet's  mind 
Are  scenes  thy  broken  grandeur  have  combined. 
Sweet   Glenville  !   could   I  wander   through   thy 

shade, 
And  muse  on  all  the  beauties  there  displayed, 


GLENVILLE.  65 

Or  could  I  stand  beside  thy  rocks  of  old, 
And  there  with  Nature  deep  communion  hold, 
Fain  might  I  like  some  gifted  poet  sing, 
And  oft  to  mind  the  scenes  of  Glenville  bring. 

May  thy  fair  landscape  long  unaltered  lie, 
Earth's  lovely  scene !  to  rest  the  weary  eye  ; 
There  would  I,  when  life's  storms  depress  the 

soul, 

Look  on  thy  calmness,  and  myself  control ; 
There  oft  I  go  to  read  thy  page  sublime, 
Forgetful  of  a  world  of  sin  and  crime. 
Sweet  Glenville  !  thus  let  fostered  Nature  dwell 
Unaltered  in  thy  beauteous,  tranquil  dell. 


MOUNT  AUBURN. 

MOUNT  AUBURN,  Mount  Auburn, 
How  countless  thy  number ! 

How  calm  and  unbroken 
Thy  dead  in  their  slumber! 

Not  a  breath  or  a  murmur 
From  the  marble  lip  cold. 

But  quiet  together 

They  companionship  hold. 

The  pine  moaneth  gently, 
Yet  sweet  is  its  sighing ; 

'T  is  a  hymn  to  the  sleeper 
Who  'neath  it  is  lying. 

The  west  wind  is  breathing 
Through  foliage  o'erhead ; 

The  aspen  leaves  whisper 
And  sigh  to  the  dead. 

Mausoleum  and  column, 

And  statue  and  tomb, 
Here,  splendid  and  solemn, 

Point  to  each  narrow  room 


MOUNT  AUBURN.  67 

Through  these  walks  of  the  dead, 

And  whose  occupants  are 
Those  who  life's  game  have  played 

And  the  narrow  house  share  : 

The  babe  and  its  mother, 

The  master  and  groom, 
The  father  and  brother, 

Here  each  find  a  room. 

He  who  yesterday  owned 

The  prairie  and  wood, 
To-day  is  the  tenant 

Of  part  of  a  rood. 

He  has  left  all  behind ;  — 

Others  grasp  up  the  spoils, 
Though  wrung  from  the  needy, 

The  sweat  of  their  toils. 

But  they  shall  come  hither 

To  slumber  the  same, 
After  each  shall  have  played 

Life's  marvelous  game. 

And  the  poor  may  be  richer, 

Far  richer  than  they, 
Though  no  trappings  of  wealth 

May  distinguish  their  clay. 

Men  honored  in  story,  — 
Eternal  in  good, — 


68  MOUNT  AUBURN. 

They  consecrate  Auburn, 
This  beautiful  wood. 

When  statue  shall  crumble 
And  column  shall  fall, 

When  the  ruins  of  time 
Have  swept  o'er  them  all, 

Their  glory  shall  flourish, 

Its  pillars  remain  ; 
Their  archway  's  in  heaven  : 

That  God  will  sustain. 

Oh  sweet  blow  thy  breezes, 

Deliciously  sweet, 
As  on  through  thy  mazes 

Still  wander  my  feet; 

And  chalice  of  blossoms 

Wherever  I  tread, 
Surcharged  with  sweet  incense, 

Float  out  o'er  the  dead. 

Rest,  rest,  to  thy  sleepers; 

Let  the  footstep  be  slow, 
That  threads  the  dark  alleys 

Yet  moistened  with  woe ; 

For  she  who  walked  with  me, 
Who  talked  by  my  side 

Beneath  these  same  shadows  — 
Ah !   she,  too,  hath  died. 


MOUNT  AUBURN. 

But  few  flowers  have  faded, 
But  few  suns  have  set, 

Since  her  voice  here  echoed, — 
It  here  lingers  yet. 

Mount  Auburn,  Mount  Auburn, 
How  countless  thy  number! 

How  calm  and  unbroken 
Thy  dead  in  their  slumber! 


69 


THE   ANGELS. 

A  LITTLE  child  amongst  the  flowers, 
Sat  singing  away  the  happy  hours ; 
And  careless  o'er  her  forehead  fair, 
Hung  wavy  curls  of  silken  hair. 
Her  fairy  form  she  constant  swayed, 
Time  keeping  with  the  tune  she  made : 
Three  simple  words  lisped  o'er  and  o'er, 
Were  what  she  sang,  —  she  sang  no  more. 
"  Wha  loves  me,  who  loves  me  ?  " 
"  Every  blossom  thou  dost  see," 
Sighed  the  zephyr,  « loveth  thee." 

The  modest  bluebell  merry  rung, 
As  if  the  words  to  her  were  sung ; 
The  bursting  rose-bud,  fringed  with  green, 
Expanded  with  a  gracious  mien; 
The  jasmine  round  its  tendrils  threw, 
To  prove  its  love  was  deep  and  true; 
Viola  wider  oped  its  eye 
And  sent  a  laugh  across  the  sky  — 
But  still  the  child  unceasing  sung 
The  same  three  words  the  flowers  among : 
"  Who  loves  me,  who  loves  me  ?  " 
«  All  the  birds  that  list  to  thee," 
Sang  the  robin  from  the  tree. 


THE  ANGELS.  71 

Meanwhile,  through  heaven's  serene  expanse, 
Angelic  forms  to  earth  advance : 
The  song  had  reached  the  ear  above, 
And,  guided  by  celestial  love, 
Pausing  amidst  the  shady  bowers, 
Where  sang  the  child  amongst  the  flowers, 
They,  listening,  heard  the  artless  lay 
In  which  she  sang  the  hours  away: 
"  Who  loves  me  ?  who  loves  me  ?  " 
"All  the  angels  heaven  doth  see  — 
God  and  angels  —  they  love  thee." 

Thus  immortal  lips  replied ; 
Then,  softly  floating  from  her  side, 
They  disappeared  in  upper  space 
As  mists  the  rays  of  morn  efface, 
And  closed  above  the  mystic  scene 
The  mantling  dome  of  blue  serene  : 
The  low  winds  whispering  rocked  the  rose, 
The  lilies  paled  like  winter  snows, 
Around  more  close  the  jasmine  vine 
Its  golden  bells  of  love  did  twine ; 
Viola  dropped  a  tear  of  grief 
And  bowed  her  head  beneath  a  leaf. 

Then  ceased  the  child  her  artless  song, 
No  more  't  was  heard  the  flowers  among  ; 
But  oft  her  tiny  footsteps  tread 
The  garden  maze  they  loved  to  thread, 
And  long  into  the  glorious  sky 
She  'd  fix  her  calm  and  wishful  eye,  — 


72  THE  ANGELS. 

While  more  ethereal  grew  her  form, 
And  beauty  blent  a  holier  charm. 
Once  more  she  raised  her  eye  of  blue, — 
It  seemed  to  pierce  the  ether  through, 
As  if  she  saw  those  gates  unfold, 
Where  shining  ones  have  harps  of  gold, 
Or,  heard  from  melting  notes  above, 
Tones  sweet  of  fond  maternal  love, 
For  which  her  yearning  heart  had  sighed, 
And  life  was  blank  with  that  denied. 

Beauteous  child !  too  pure  to  last ! 
The  shades  of  death  are  o'er  thee  cast : 
Angels  are  whispering  sweet  and  low 
Those  things  the  dying  only  know. 
Still  as  the  breath  of  opening  flowers, 
Still  as  the  sky  ere  tempest  lowers, 
From  earth  her  spirit  passed  away 
To  shores  of  light,  to  endless  day ; 
And  where  on  summer  flowers  she  laid, 
Her  little  grave  in  tears  was  made. 


DEPARTING  DAY. 

GENTLY  adown  the  western  sky 

The  sun  is  fast  declining, 
And  on  the  wooded  ridges  lie 

Its  calm  and  mellow  shining. 

So  let  the  scenes  of  duty  grow, 
As  from  our  life  the  day  is  going, 

And  o'er  its  gathering  shadows  throw 
As  sweet  and  calm  a  glowing. 


SERMON   BY  A   WORM. 

(FROM  THE  WINDOW-SILL  OF  AMHERST  COLLEGE 
CHAPEL.) 

WHY  hast  thou  come   here,   O   thou   strange 

creeping  worm, 

A  Freshman  just  entered,  this  last  College  term  ! 
Audacious  thou  crawlest  with  purpose,  or  will, 
Incessantly  roving  o'er  this  window-sill, — 
And  stopping  to  view  me,  as  proudly  you  pass, 
As  grand  as  a  Bishop  when  holding  a  mass, 
Or  Tutor  in  charge  of  a  Sophomore  class !  — 
All  decked  out  in  colors,  a  motley  array, 
As  gay  as  the  damsels  that  walk  in  Broadway  ! 
In  yellow  and  green,  with  invisible  brown, 
The  prelude  of  Autumn  I  see  on  your  gown ; 
And  if  I  mistake  not,  the  hue  of  your  face 
With  the    genus   of  Jews   would    your    counte- 
nance place. 

Avaunt  from  my  presence  !  pray  do  nothing  less  ! 
I  fear  you  will  hide  in  the  folds  of  my  dress, 
And  with  your  tall  antlers  my  body  will  sting; 
And  if  I  cried  out,  what  a  horrible  thing! 
'T  is  the  sermon  to  hear  for  which  I  have  come : 
I  wish    you  would  go  with   your    classmates   or 
chum. 


SERMON  BY  A    WORM.  75 

Then  stopping,  he  gracefully  lifted  his  head, 
And,  wise  as  a  sage,  turned  toward  me  and  said, 
While  multum  in  parvo  his  teaching  began : 
"I'll  show  you  a  mystery  no  mortal  shall  scan. 
Although  I  came  hither  a  poor  creeping  worm, 
Yet  in  me  I  '11  prove  is  a  wonderful  germ : 
My  Maker  hath  made  me  the  semblance  of  man, 
A  typified  thing  in  His  marvelous  plan. 

"From   a  nursling,  I  dwelt  where   honey-bees 

flocked ; 
A    flower   was    my    cradle,    by    summer    winds 

rocked ; 

With  brothers  around  me,  my  world  was  a  tree ; 
I  cared  not,  —  my  Maker  provided  for  me. 
With  a  leaf  for  my  table,  I  gratefully  dined ; 
For  viands  more  costly  I  never  repined. 
I  '11  preach  you  a  sermon  without  any  text, 
More  orthodox  none  by  a  Prof,  or  a  Prex ; 
And  when  I  have  done  I  will  weave  me  a  shroud, 
And  into  some  niche  my  poor  body  will  crowd. 
But  when  a  few  suns  shall  have  circled  away, 
And  I  shall  come  forth  to  the  sunshine  of  day, 
In  tints  of  the  rainbow  will  quiver  my  wings, 
And  I  shall  be  loved  like  all  beautiful  things. 
The  chaste  eye  of  maiden  will  linger  on  me, 
And  childhood  leap  joyous  my  presence  to  see  ; 
My  food  will  I  draw  from  the  white  lily's  breast  ; 
On  wings  of  a  cloudlet  my  body  will  rest. 


76  SERMON  BY  A    WORM. 

"  Like  the  seed  from  the  tree  that  hangs  over- 
head, 
That  drops  to   the  earth  where   the  vulgar  may 

tread, 

And  sinks  to  its  bosom  in  silence  to  rest, 
Yet  holds,  unperceived,  in  its  mystical  breast 
Unorganized  life,  distinctive,  apart, 
And  destined  in  vigor  and  splendor  to  start,— 
Like  me,  it  shall  die  not,  but  leaveth  its  tomb, 
And  towering  to  heaven  in  beauty  will  bloom; 
So  I,  from  my  cerement,  erelong  will  arise, 
And  you  may  behold  me  with  wings  in  the  skies  ! 
When  cometh  your  change,  if  you  're  ready,  like 

me, 

A  victory  immortal  your  spirit  will  free. 
I  argue  thus  bold,  in  my  ethical  strain,  — 
A  worm  of  the  earth,  yet  I  preach  not  in  vain. 

"I  will  prove  all  my  subject;"   so  onward  he 

ran, 

With  an  instinct  approaching  to  reason  in  man ; 
"For  my  change   I   am   ready;"  —  then  nearer 

he  drew, 
And  dropped  in   a   corner  quite   darkened  from 

view, 

And  wove  him  of  satin  a  beautiful  shroud, 
Where  eye  of  a  mortal  no  look  is  allowed. 
But  when  a  few  mornings  the  sun  had  awoke, 
A  fairy-like  thing  from  its  sepulchre  broke  ; 
Unfurling  its  wings,  like  a  seraph  it  flew, — 
Thus  proving  the   sermon   he   preached  me  was 

true. 


MUSIC. 

WRITTEN  WHILE  A  HAND-ORGAN  WAS  PLAYING 
UNDER  MY  WINDOW  FROM  THE  OPERA  OF 
LTTCRETIA  BORGIA. 

OH  break  no  more  this  magic  spell ! 

It  melts  my  soul  with  raptures  wild, 
Like  music  from  some  Peri's  shell: 
I  'm  held  a  captive  to  its  spell, 

Subdued  and  passive  as  a  child. 
Thou  heavenly  power,  with  influence  mild, 
Stay,  stay,  for  I  forget  that  earth  is  cold, 

Or  man  is  mortal,  in  this  vale  of  tears. 

List !    list  !    above    yon    bright,    yon    burning 

spheres, 
Angels  breathe  music  from  their  harps  of  gold  ! 

Would  I  were   there,  where   't  is  the   soul  of 
heaven, 

And  one  sweet  lyre  to  me  were  given, 
Its  chords  to  sweep,  without  a  grief,  or  sigh, 
Without  a  trembling  tear  to  dim  the  eye. 


MYSTERIOUS   NATURE. 

'T  is  a  mysterious  thing  to  see  the  earth 
Put  on  the  fresh  unfolded  robe  of  spring,  — 

To  hear  the  liquid  notes  go  up  in  mirth, 
And  melt  in  chorus  from  each  living  thing. 

Noiseless  the  bud  expandeth  into  flower; 

Noiseless  the  forest  robes  its  naked  form ; 
Noiseless  as  thought  in  its  mysterious  power, 

Or    sunlight    breaking   through    the   clouds  of 
storm. 

Thoughtful  we  walk  beneath  the  shadowy  tree, 
Dense  with  its  canopy  of  leaves  and  flowers ; 

We  hear  aerial  notes,  or  hum  of  bee, 
And  linger  careless  of  the  fleeting  hours. 

The  rudest  mind  or  dullest  eye  can  see 
This  transformation  of  consummate  skill ; 

For  ice-bound  streams  and  desolated  tree. 
The  vernal  robe,  and  gently  flowing  rill. 

The  flower  at  morn 'unfolds  each  silken  leaf, 
And  lives  its  bright  and  beauteous  day; 

Then,  chilled  with  age,  it  droops  at  dews  of  eve, 
And  thus  the  flowers  successive  pass  away. 


MYSTERIOUS  NATURE.  79 

Each  fragrant  bud  that  opes  its  incense  cup 
Upon  the  air  at  early  morn  to  pour, 

Is  filled  with  myriad  life,  in  brilliant  forms, 
Whose  day  with  flowers  of  setting  sun  is  o'er. 

Brief  particles !  minute,  mysterious  life, 
In  the  material  compact  perfect  made; 

Atoms  that  breathe,  and  love,  and  reproduce, 
And  with  the  flowers  at  dews  of  sunset  fade. 

Each    scene   that   moves    the    heart   with    deep 
delight, 

Whose  splendor  unexpressed  allures  the  eye, 
Is  but  an  atom,  like  the  stars  of  night, 

That  shine,  when  millions  hid  beyond  them  lie. 

Far,  far  beneath  the  waste  of  waters  deep, 
Are  waving  grottoes  of  perpetual  green, 

Where  buds  unfold  and  vines  in  beauty  creep, 
A  world  of  life  to  human  eye  unseen. 

In  all  the  grand  economy  of  God, 

Where'er  we  gaze,  whate'er  our  footsteps  meet, 
Through  ocean's  depths,  the  air,  the  verdant  sod, 

Atom  on  atom,  life  on  lives  complete. 

Formed  in  obedience  to  stupendous  might,  — 
Before  whose  presence,  veiled,  in  awe  we  bow ; 

Who    yonder    orbs    swung    loose    in    breathless 

height, 
And  bade  them  silent  roll,  since  time,  as  now. 


80  MYSTERIOUS  NATURE. 

Lost  in  a  reverie  too  deep  for  thought, 

From  these  mysterious  searchings  set  me  free  ; 

For  who   shall  find   out    Him   the   change   that 

wrought, 
Or  who  explore  the  Power  Supreme  we  see  ? 


WARREN'S   STATUE, 

AT    BOSTON. 

WHEN  a  bold  defending  few, 
Strong  in  faith,  together  drew, 
Nerved  the  arm  and  took  the  field, 
Death  or  Freedom  on  their  shield, 
By  the  might  of  God  they  fought, 
Till  by  blood  was  Freedom  bought  ! 

Warren  on  the  giant  foe 
Struck  a  bold  defensive  blow ; 
Warren  fought  for  Liberty; 
Warren  fell  ere  Victory 
Had  her  ensign  for  the  brave 
Hung  upon  a  patriot's  grave. 

Children  of  the  Mayflower  band, 

Yours  is  Freedom's  happy  land! 

Dear  New  England  !    Glorious  name  ! 

Full  of  patriots,  full  of  fame, 

Let  the  statue  proudly  tell 

Where  our  Warren  fought  and  fell. 


PUISSIEZ  VOUS  ETRE  HEUREUX. 

I   WOULD    not   that   sorrow   should   darken    thy 

way, 

But  joy  in  thy  dwelling  forever  might  stay  ; 
Affection's  bright  halo  encircle  thee  round, 
And  blossoms  of  peace  in  thy  pathway  be  found. 

I  would  that  thy  sky  might  forever  be  calm, 
Thy  atmosphere  odored  with  richest  of  balm, 
The  bright  star  of  Hope  linger  sweet  o'er  thy 

way, 
Unshrouded  and  lovely,  and  never  betray. 

Thy   dark   laughing   eyes,   ever   thus    may   they 

smile  ; 

They  tell  of  thy  heart,  yet  unspotted  by  guile ; 
May  freshness  of  youth  long  encircle  thy  brow, 
And  happiness  glad  as  it  gladdens  thee  now. 

I  think  of  thy  youth,  of  that  sorrowful  hour, 
A  bud  thou  wert  left  just  expanding  to  flower; 
Affection  the  purest  thy  spirit  could  crave, 
Was  hidden  and  lost  in  the  desolate  grave. 


PUISSIEZ  VOUS  ETRE  HEUREUX.  83 

I  would  not  affliction  should  chill  with  its  storm ; 
I  would  not  that  sickness  should  wither  thy  form  ; 
But    buoyant   thy   step    as  when    childhood  first 

smiled, 
When  Innocence   blessed  thee,  and   called   thee 

her  child. 

Alas  for  us  mortals !   in  earth's  changing  sphere, 
Cold  tempests  will  hover  and  dark  skies  appear ; 
Nor  alone  decked  with  flowers  our   pathway  be- 
low, 
For  roses  and  thorns  e'er  together  will  grow. 

How  varied  life's  landscape !   fair  sometimes  our 

sky! 

To-day  we  are  laughing,  to-morrow  we  sigh  ; 
When  the  rainbow  of  pleasure  is  brightest  o'er- 

head, 
Beyond  lies  the  tempest,  dark,  awful,  and  dread. 

In  thy  heart  may  the  spirit  of  piety  reign, 
The  bright  crown  of  life  be  it  thine  to  obtain ; 
When  past  the  dark  vale  which  our  fathers  have 

trod, 
A  harp  mayest  thou  take  with   the  ransomed  of 

God! 


"WORK   WHILE   THE   DAY   LASTS, 

FOR    THE    NIGHT    COMETH    WHEREIN   NO    MAN    CAN 
WORK." 

SHALL  we  tarry  ?     Never,   never  ! 

There  's  no  time  for  man  to  waste  : 
Up  and  doing,  striving  ever; 

Onward,  each,  to  duty  haste. 

Loiter  not  —  't  is  wild  presumption  ! 

Every  moment  onward  still; 
Man,  while  here,  is  on  a  mission 

God  hath  given  him  to  fulfill. 

Life  is  brief —  a  day  of  trouble  ; 

Guard  the  heart  and  nerve  the  mind : 
Night  approacheth  —  bravely  struggle ; 

Soon  no  work  the  hands  will  find. 

Waste  not  time,  oh  waste  it  never ; 

Haste  to  duty,  that  pursue : 
This,  till  death,  thy  first  endeavor, 

Keep  alone  before  the  view. 

Look  on  high  !  the  stars  are  sweeping 
Endless  rounds  through  boundless  space ; 


WORK    WHILE   THE  DAY  LASTS.  85 

Each  its  silent  duty  keeping, 
Never  halting  in  the  race. 

List  to  Nature's  tones  prophetic; 

Summer  wind  or  lisping  wave, 
Fading  flower  or  breeze  pathetic, 

Each  reminds  us  of  the  grave. 

Slumber  not  at  break  of  morning  — 
On  its  wing  mounts  up  the  dew; 

Opening  buds  the  earth  adorning, 
Each  the  mandate  follow  through. 

Shall  we  linger  ?     Never,  never  ! 

There 's  no  time  for  man  to  waste  : 
Up  and  doing,  striving  ever; 

Onward,  each,  to  duty  haste. 


FLOWERS   ON  FRANCES  OSGOOD'S  GRAVE 

AT    MOUNT    AUBURN. 

BRIGHT  pendent  flowers,  which  graceful  bloom 
In  splendid  forms  o'er  Osgood's  grave ! 
Can  it  be  sacrilege  to  crave 

One  blossom  from  her  lonely  tomb  — 

One  flower  to  save  ? 

Ah !  darkly  'midst  the  damps  of  clay 

The  gifted  poet  calmly  sleeps ; 

Here  blooms  the  flower,  here  sighs  and  weeps 
At  genius  passed  too  soon  away, 

And  vigil  keeps. 

Hush!  while  I  utter  those  sweet  strains 
That  gushed  so  warmly  from  her  lyre, 
And  sweetly  thrilled,  but  to  expire, 

And  wake  on  the  immortal  plains, 

With  holier  fire. 

Bright  flower!   I'll  press  it  to  my  heart, 

I  '11  keep  it  as  a  relic  blest, 

And  oft,  amidst  this  life's  unrest, 
'T  will  precious  memories  bring,  apart 

From  all  the  rest. 


THE   ORPHAN. 

THE  day  is  waning,  child ! 

Your  limbs  are  cold  and  bare; 
The  wintry  winds  blow  wild, 

There  's  none  for  you  to  care.  * 

Your  heart  is  sorrow,  child ! 

Your  parents  both  are  gone : 
"Tis  long  since  you  have  smiled, 

Poor  outcast  all  forlorn ! 

Your  brow  is  thoughtful,  child ! 

You  're  dwelling  on  your  lot, 
When  joy  your  bosom  filled, 

But  now  unloved,  forgot. 

You  had  a  mother,  child ! 

And  felt  her  fond  embrace : 
How  full  of  joy  she  smiled, 

How  blessed  was  her  face. 

Alas  !  you  're  weary,  child ! 

Tear-drops  are  in  your  eye ;      * 
'T  is  God  your  lot  has  willed,  — 

Your  Father  in  the  sky. 


88  THE   ORPHAN. 

"  He  will  take  thee  up,"  child ! 

He  made  this  solemn  vow ; 
Then  spoke  she,  while  she  smiled, 

"I  wish  He'd  take  me  now." 


THE   STEEL   PEN. 

Now  once  for  all  I  do  condemn 
Forever  this  unwieldy  pen 
Brought  into  general  use,  — 
I  owe  it  all  my  worst  abuse. 

Metallic  pen, 

Never  again 

With  you  I  '11  scrawl  a  line ; 
I  'd  sooner  rake  from  out  the  brine 
A  lobster's  claw,  and  then 
Write  billet-doux  so  fine 
You  'd  have  to  magnify  the  line, 
And  connoisseurs  would  say 
How  beautiful !     Away ! 

Give  me  another 

From  Nature  rather, — 
Rather  from  out  the  bird  of  Jove 
That  soars  the  clouds  above  ; 
Or  from  the  modest  goose, 
The  best  of  all  in  use. 

Then  would  I  sing, 

Hail  to  the  wing, 

For  such  a  thing, 
A  goose's  kind  gratuity ! 


THE   MINSTREL   GIRL. 

SWEET  thy  strains,  thou  minstrel  daughter, 

Touch  again  thy  ocean  shell, 
From  thy  cottage  by  the  water, 

In  the  green  and  shadowy  dell. 

I  have  listened  all  enchanted, 

Held  within  thy  magic  spell ; 
What  a  boon  has  Nature  granted 

In  thy  sweet  and  simple  shell. 

Gentle  maiden,  unassuming, 

On  thy  fortunes  how  I  dwell, 
Since  I  saw  thee  sweetly  blooming 

In  thy  quiet  ocean  dell, — 

With  each  pale  mysterious  feature, 
With  thy  eyes  that  pleasure  tell: 

Take  my  heart,  thou  fairy  creature, 
Minstrel  of  the  ocean  shell. 


MY   YOUTHFUL   FRIEND   MARY. 

MARY,  dost  thou  yet  remember, 

In  the  days  of  joyous  spring, 
When  the  flowers  were  young  and  tender, 

And  the  birds   did  blithely  sing  — 

How  we  used  to  play  together, 

When  the  orchards  were  in  bloom, 

'Neath  the  trees,  when  wild  bees  ever 
Kept  their  own  unceasing  hum? 

Tell  me,  dost  thou  yet  remember 

All  those  days  forever  fled, 
When,  beside  the  still  blue  water, 

Other  scenes  our  footsteps  led  — 

From  thy  father's  hearth  where  gathered 
All  the  little  household  band ; 

All,  without  a  link  unsevered, 
As  we  saw  in  beauty  stand— - 

Like  the  buds  to  blossoms  opening 

In  the  blessed  hour  of  May ; 
Laughing,  loving,  fondly  hoping, 

Thus  that  life  might  ever  stay? 


92  MY  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND  MARY. 

Yes,  those  days  thou  dost  remember; 

All  that  little  group  dost  see ; 
And  affection  still  is  tender 

As  its  forms  return  to  thee. 

Long  those  moments  round  will  hover, 
Long  within  thy  heart  will  stay  ; 

Ne'er,  till  life's  last  link  shall  sever, 
Will  their  memory  pass  away. 

Often  when  the  world,  unloving, 
Coldly  seems  to  smile  on  thee, 

Backward  thought,  in  silence  roving, 
Brings  the  hours  thou'st  spent  with  me. 

Like  the  flower  its  odor  sending 
On  the  path  in  which  we  rove, 

So,  to  us,  is  memory  lending 

Bliss  the  hearts  of  childhood  wove. 

Oh  I  would  that  time  might  never 
Life's  bright  tints  a  moment  fade ; 

Friend  with  friend  might  dwell  forever, 
Where  no  parting  word  is  said. 


CASTLE   IN  THE   AIR, 

I  HAD  a  strange  and  wondrous  dream, 
A  kind  of  visionary  scheme ; 
The  glowing  numbers  thus  began, 
And  sweet,  indeed,  the  vision  ran : 

'T  was  on  a  fair  and  beauteous  night, 
When  every  star  for  me  shone  bright, 
And  dew-drops  into  crystals  turned, 
And,  rainbow-like,  in  radiance  burned ; 
The  stream  and  breeze  sent  up  their  lay, 
And  sweetly  charmed  my  soul  away, 
Until,  before  my  eager  eyes, 
I  saw  a  splendid  city  rise, 

With  many  a  lofty  spire  and  dome  ; 
And  Ocean,  on  her  mighty  breast, 
Sent  in  her  ships  from  east  and  west, 

And  made  that  busy  spot  their  home. 
While  sweet  the  clang  of  many  a  mill, 
The  breeze  with  melody  did  fill, 
And  echoed  back  from  hill  to  hill, 

Like  minstrelsy  in  days  of  yore ; 
I  heard  the  voice  of  future  days 
Descant  sublimely  in  my  praise, 

And  read  my  name  in  treasured  lore. 


94  CASTLE  IN    THE  AIR. 

In  aisle  and  court  my  statue  stood; 
They  called  me  noble,  great,  and  good; 
And  halos  of  immortal  fame 
In  splendor  shone  around  my  name: 
Oblivion  saw,  and  heaved  a  sigh, 
And  wiped  her  cold,  sepulchral  eye. 
My  glory,  which  she  sought  to  grasp, 
Arose  above  her  power  to  clasp. 
And  yearly  did  each  chiming  bell 
My  bold  achievements  proudly  tell, 
Till  gratitude  my  praises  sung 
In  sweetest  strains  of  human  tongue. 
Time  dropped  for  me  her  sands  of  gold, 
I  gathered  wealth  and  fame  untold. 

Then  I  awoke,  and  turned  away 
To  where  the  scene  in  Nature  lay, 
And  there  I  toiled  full  many  a  day, 
With  Hope  alone  to  cheer  my  way ; 
When,  lo!  the  stars  grew  dim  and  cold, 
The  crystal  drops  in  dust  had  rolled, 
Earth  in  her  mantle  rudely  crept, 
And  hid  herself —  and  there  she  slept. 
The  stream  that  gave  to  me  her  song, 
And  charmed  my  vision  sweet  along, 
Had  lost  its  soft  and  silver  breath, 
And  outstretched  lay  as  still  as  death ! 
My  statues  into  atoms  fell! 
And  ceased  fore'er  each  chiming  bell ! 
My  glory  lived  e'en  but  a  day,  — 


CASTLE  IN  TEE  AIR.  95 

I 

Like  summer  cloud  it  passed  away. 
Oblivion  laughed,  and  seized  her  prey ! 
Oh,  then,  my  "  castle  in  the  air  " 
Exploded  like  a  meteor  there ; 
The  jarring  of  its  mighty  sound 
Was  felt  in  sullen  gloom  around. 

With  faltering  step  I  turned  away, 
For  nought  will  e'er  my  toil  repay. 
Ah,  me !   this  js  a  world  of  change,  f 
And  man's  career  is  surely  strange ; 
I  feel  my  head  is  growing  gray, 
Time's  finger  pulls  my  locks  away; 
I  sit  for  hours  demure  and  sad, 
And  make  no  being  round  me  glad; 
But  gaze  into  the  coals,  —  if  such  I  find, 
And  wonder  at  my  visionary  mind. 


EVENING. 

TWILIGHT  is  gone,  and  Evening  now 
Her  sable  mantle  throws  around ; 

The  cool  wind  fans  the  weary  brow, 
And  stillness  holds  its  sway  profound. 

How  calmly  falls  the  sober  ray 

That  shines  from  yon  ethereal  dome, 

That  points  to  heaven  the  spirit's  way 

Through  distant  spheres,  to  God,  its  home. 

Evening,  thine  is  the  lonely  hour, 

When  mind  immortal  mind  may  meet ; 

And  prayer,  like  incense,  angels  bear 
Up  to  the  holy  Mercy-seat. 

There  comes  a  voice  from  Olives'  height,— 
The  gentle  Saviour's  lonely  prayer; 

'T  is  borne,  amidst  the  hush  of  night, 
From  Judah's  groves  of  balmy  air. 

"  O  Father  !  let  it  pass  ! "  He  said  ; 

"How  can  I  drink  the  bitter  cup? 
Still  be  Thy  will  in  me  obeyed; 

My  will,  my  life,  I  yield  them  up." 


EVENING.  97 

Forever  shall  that  mystic  scene 
Float  on  the  lonely  wings  of  night, 

And  on  our  Father  teach  to  lean 
For  help  to  make  our  sorrows  light. 

Evening !  thine  is  the  season  blest 

To  woo  the  soul  from  cares  and  woes, — 

When  angels  gently  watch  our  rest, 
While  pillowed  in  the  night's  repose. 

How  oft  thy  shadows  fondly  bring 

The  memories  of  departed  days ; 
How  calmly  buoy  the  spirit's  wing, 

As  back  we  turn  life's  by-gone  ways. 

Serene  earth's  glorious  landscape  lies, 
Beneath  the  beams  of  Cynthia's  light; 

The  twinkling  orbs  bestud  the  skies, 
And  flood  the  earth  with  mellow  light. 

How  grateful  is  this  stilly  hour! 

Rude  sounds  no  more  the  ear  enthrall ; 
And  kindly  o'er  the  drooping  flower 

The  tear  of  night  doth  silent  fall. 

Evening,  blest  season!    man  is  free 
From  busy  care,  from  toil  and  woe ; 

And  lo !   he  bends  in  prayer  the  knee, 
And  sweet  to  God  his  accents  flow. 

7 


NIAGARA   FALLS. 

GREAT  wonder  of  Nature !  thy  thunders  I  hear ; 
Thy  rush  of  wild  waters  before  me  appear ! 
A  majesty  awful  doth  compass  the  mind, 
The  might  of  Jehovah  around  me  I  find. 

In   thy  deep   dreadful    chasms   thick   volumes  of 

spray, 

In  dense  moving  clouds  mount  the  ether  away, 
Till  hung  like  a  sheet  on  the  front  of  the  sky, 
Are  mists  that  thy  waters  have  sent  up  on  high. 

In  caverns  of  foam  thy  bright  rainbows  are  born, 
Where    green    rolling    rapids    whirl    under   with 

scorn  ; 
These   walls,   which   thy   torrents   together   have 

stayed, 
The  hand  of  Omnipotence  boldly  hath  laid. 

Wert  thou   poured   here,  O    Torrent,  to   thunder 

sublime, 

To  echo  through  ages  the  waning  of  time  ? 
Or  millions  to  teach,  who  thy  precincts  have  trod, 
To  doubt  not  the  might  and  the  wisdom  of  God  ? 


NIAGARA  FALLS.  99 

Wild,  wild  are   emotions   that   rush    through  the 

mind,  — 

The  pulses  of  life  scarce  their  channels  can  find  ; 
Enough  is  thy  awful  imposing  control 
To  palsy  the  sense  and  to  shatter  the  soul. 

But  turn  from  thy  brink  to  thy  islet  of  green, 
Where  verdure  of  Nature  like  spring-time  is  seen  ; 
Like  Mercy  it  sits  in  the  foam-dashing  tide, 
And  smiling  in  beauty  thy  waters  divide. 

Here,  here  doth  thy  magic  unburden  the  mind; 
Here  charms  of  the  wild  wood   are  sweetly  com- 
bined ; 

New  and  gentler  emotions  are  called  into  birth ; 
It  seems  like  a  paradise  guarded  from  earth. 

Enthroned  in  sublimity,  grandeur,  and  awe, 
Thou  scene  of  great  Nature,  no  pencil  can  draw  ; 
Thy  paean  of  thunder,  with  time,  has  e'er  told, 
The  glory  of  God  in  thy  handiwork  bold ! 


DEDICATION  SONG. 

WRITTEN    BY    REQUEST,    AND     SUNG    AT    THE    DEDI- 
CATION   OF    HARRISON    HALL,    MARCH    4,    1841. 

LET  freemen  join  in  grateful  song, 

Within  these  walls  to-day ; 
Let  music  echo  loud  and  long. 

And  through  these  arches  play. 

Let  the  dim  forest  breathe  its  voice, 

Old  Ocean's  deeps  reply ; 
Let  our  wide  continent  rejoice 

As  the  glad  tidings  fly. 

A  grateful  nation  claims  this  day 

Rich  honors  to  bestow, 
The  valiant  soldier  to  repay, 

Who  conquered  every  foe. 

And  by  our  noble  hero's  side 

We  '11  firm  together  stand  ; 
In  freedom's  cause  with  him  allied, 

Go  strengthened  hand  in  hand. 

And  may  our  rising  infant  race 
Tell  hence  what  deeds  were  done, 


DEDlCATfdff  8&lfl0*f  101 

And  often  mingle^  in  .This  piatfc," 
True  Whigs  of  Harrison. 

And  when  on  eastern  regions  far, 

Our  chieftain  rests  his  eye, 
'T  will  cheer  him  there  to  see  our  "  star " 

In  glory  rising  high. 

Where  Narragaugus  wanders  on, 

Long  may  this  mansion  stand, 
And  bear  the  name  of  Harrison, 

The  honored  of  our  land 

Let  strains  of  music  loud  and  long, 

Throughout  its  arches  play  ; 
Let  grateful  hearts  break  forth  in  song, 

'T  is  jubilee  to-day. 


THE   WOUNDED   TOAD, 

ON    THE    U.    S.    CAPITOL    GROUND    AT  WASHINGTON. 

I  WANDERED  one  morning,  the  sweetest  of  May, 
Inhaling  the  breezes  that  favored  the  day, 
And  filled  with  the  odor  from  lilacs  around, 
That  bloomed  so  profuse  on  the  Capitol  ground. 

As  thoughtful  and  slowly,  enjoying  the  scene, 
I  came  down  a  walk  under  shadows  of  green, 
A  poor  little  toad,  nearly  frightened  to  death, 
Hopped  out  of  the  way  and  was  panting  for  breath. 

The  blood  from  his  shoulder  was  oozing  in  drops  ; 
He  hopped  up  the  side  under  edgings  of  box ; 
His  gray  eye  protruded  with  suffering  and  fear ; 
In  mercy  he  begged  me  his  story  to  hear. 

"  I  made  me  a  home  in  a  cavity  small, 
Inside  of  the  bank  by  the  new  Senate  Hall, 
And   lined   it   with    down  from  the  cotton-wood- 
tree,  — 
A  dear  little  home  for  a  creature  like  me. 

"  I  thought  here  in  pleasure  my  life-time  to  spend  ; 
With  vigilant  eye  these  green  lawns  to  attend; 


THE   WOUNDED    TOAD.  103 

The  blossoms  to  guard  that  successively  blow; 
And  seize  every  caitiff  that  lurked  as  a  foe. 

"  To  drink  of  the  dew  from  the  nectar  of  flowers 
That  evening  collects  from  invisible  showers, 
Through   long   summer    nights,   with   the   bright 

stars  above, 
To  sit  under  roses  and  croak  to  my  love. 

"  I  was  smitten,  alas !   on  national  ground ; 
A  foeman,  good  Madam,  inflicted  the  wound, 
Who  from  his  own  country  for  freedom  had  fled, 
And  hither  by  Providence  kindly  was  led. 

u  This  man  with  a  sickle  was  cutting  the  grass,  — 
I  thought  it  no  trespass  and  ventured  to  pass ; 
He  wickedly  came  and  inflicted  a  blow: 
He  severed  my  shoulder,  —  oh  where  shall  I  go  ? 

"  Here,  here  was  I  born,  but  a  twelvemonth  ago, 
When   the    catkins   fell    thick   on   the    pavement 

below ; 
And,  with   the   good   teachings   my  fond  mother 

gave, 
I  hoped  here  to  dwell  till  I  entered  my  grave. 

"  I  'm  nothing,  indeed,  but  a  poor  harmless  toad, 

Endowed  with  the  instincts  which  God  has  be- 
stowed ; 

Yet  the  principle,  Madam,  that  hastens  my 
death, 

Still  mocks  at  my  woe  as  I  struggle  for  breath. 


104 


THE   WOUNDED    TOAD. 


"  Beware  lest  the  foe  in  your  bosom  you  cherish, 
Should   strike    but    a   blow    and   freedom  should 

perish ; 

Despise  not  the  warning  in  dying  I  give, 
And  the  fame  of  this  Union  forever  may  live." 


THE   SLAVE'S   SOLILOQUY. 

I  AM  a  slave !     Oh  why  was  I  born ! 
Why  was  I  made  for  sorrow  and  scorn  ! 
Everywhere,  on  the  wide  earth  and  sea, 
Life  is  exalted !   is  godlike !   is  free ! 

I  am  a  slave!     Oh  bitter  the  sigh 
That  rendeth  me !     Ah,  where  shall  I  fly ! 
Crushed  with  a  curse,  and  deadened  with  woe, 
Vain  are  my  tears,  which  blind  as  they  flow. 

My  mistress  is  beautiful.     They  sing 
Of  her  virtues ;  and  gay  lovers  bring 
Hearts  adoring  to  lay  at  her  shrine, — 
Angel  they  call  her,  or,  being  divine! 

Fair  is  her  face  as  the  new-fallen  snows, 
Softer  its  blush  than  that  of  the  rose ; 
E'en  her  dimples  an  houri  might  crave : 
Such  is  my  mistress,  —  I  am  her  slave ! 

She  is  my  mistress !   she  whom  I  serve 

Unremitting,  with  spirit  and  nerve ; 

I  unslipper  her  delicate  feet, 

And  bathe  them  lest  she  languish  with  heat. 


106  THE  SLAVE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

On  down  she  reposes,  —  I,  on  the  floor ; 
I  am  a  slave  !    must  crave  nothing  more : 
Yet  she  is  my  sister,  —  none  will  deny 
I  have  her  features,  her  dimples,  her  eye. 

My  father  was  her's,  —  her  father  mine  ; 
I  am  a  slave !  but  she  is  divine. 
Merciful  God !  —  if  mercy  Thou  art  — 
Sever  these  chains,  or  stifle  my  heart. 


FAREWELL  TO   THESE   ISLANDS. 

OUR    white    sail    is    swelling,    farewell    to    these 

Islands  ! 
My   eyes   on   their   prospects   may   never   rest 

more: 
Away    from    these    hillocks,    these    valleys,    and 

highlands ; 
Farewell  to  this  rock,  to  this  sea-girdled  shore. 

Far,  far,  from   the   home   that  my  infancy  nour- 
ished, 
.     Yet  still  they  are   dear  to  their  daughter  and 

son  : 
There 's  the  cradle  that  rocked  them,  and  there 

they  Ve  flourished, 

And  there  is   their   grave  when   life's  changes 
are  done. 

No  flower  on  their  bosom  'mid  winter  is  spring- 
ing* 
But  cold   on   their   hillock  the  snow-shroud  is 

spread ; 

To  hallowed  enjoyments  their  children  are  cling- 
ing* 

And  they  heed  not  the  clime  where  rich  ver- 
dure is  shed. 


108          FAREWELL    TO    THESE  ISLANDS. 

Farewell !     How  we    glide   to    the    dark   rolling 

ocean ! 
How  its  cadence  of  waters  seem  met  on  mine 

ear; 

My  song,  hence,  the  billows'  own  dreadful  com- 
motion, — 

Then  away,  till  a   landmark   of  rest  shall  ap- 
pear. 


LAKE    HARRISON. 

LAKE  of  the  forest !   to  thy  lonely  side 

The  stranger  comes  to  gaze  awhile  on  thee ; 

To  stand  beneath  thy  pines  that  thick  and  wide 
Send  their  deep  shadows  round  thy  crystal  sea. 

Here    thy    pure    waves    have    rolled    since    time 

began, 

To  cheer  the  solitude  within  this  wild ; 
And  still  unchanged  art  thou  by  hand  of  man, 
As    at    thy    birth,    when    God    with    pleasure 
smiled. 

Far  to  yon  border  rests  the  weary  eye, 

Where  shattered  trees,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 

Send  forth  their  ragged  arms  with  awe  on  high, 
And  echo  to  the  wind  their  solemn  moan. 

Dark  forest  shadows  on  thy  bosom  fall, 

As  if    deep   night    erelong    would   close   thee 

o'er; 

While  perched  on  some  lone  bough  the  scream- 
ing call 
Of  sea-bird  starts  us  on  thy  lonely  shore. 


110  LAKE  HARRISON. 

No  human  footstep  marks  thy  sandy  beach, 
Save   when    the    stranger    comes    to   stand  by 

thee ; 

Or  him  who  loves  the  things  of  earth  that  teach 
t    Lessons  of  Him  who  fills  Eternity. 

We  come  not  to  thy  side  for  classic  lore  ; 

Thy    legend    with    the    red   man's    tale   would 

blend,  — 

Tell  where  he  built  his  home  in  days  of  yore, 
And   owned   the    Christian  white    man  for  his 
friend. 

And  couldst  thou  history  here  to  us  unfold, 

Traditions  of  thy  mighty  Indian  race, 
How  would  we  shrink  when  thou  the  tale  hadst 

told, 

And   uttered  forth   the  white    man's    deep  dis- 
grace ! 

Lo,  here,  in  eastern  forests  dark  and  dim, 
Unseen  thou'st  spread  thy  bosom  to  the  sky, 

And  blent  thine  own  melodious  anthem  hymn 
With  choral  orbs  that  roll  sublime  on  high. 

Lake  Harrison  !   be  this  thy  honored  name  ! 

And  with  thy  history's  page  be  hence  enrolled  ! 
May  ages  bear  thy  honored  name  the  same, 

And  this  thy  christening  hour  as  long  be  told. 


WINTER. 

THE  bird  may  triumph  in  its  flight 
From  such  a  cold,  inclement  sky  : 

Who  would  not  dwell  where  skies  are  bright- 
When  winter  reigns  so  drearily  ? 

For  one  would  think  the  very  gale 

Had  come  from  Lapland's  frozen  woods, 

Howling  in  triumph  through  the  vale, 
O'er  Nature's  dreary  solitudes. 

Where  can  thy  charms,  O  Winter,  be, 
So  cold,  so  cheerless,  and  so  rude  ? 

Thy  landscape  is  the  leafless  tree, 

The  snow-clad  field,  and  darkened  cloud. 

In  vain  the  fancy  strives  to  find 
Some  little  scene  to  rest  her  eye; 

But  wrapt  in  dullness  is  the  mind, 
And  stupid  every  faculty. 

Oh,  what  besides  the  glowing  hearth 
Can  while  away  an  hour  like  this, 

And  cheerful  friends  of  moral  worth, 
In  scenes  of  social  happiness  ? 


112 


WINTER. 


O  Winter,  how  we  dread  thy  power; 

Ye  hours  so  rude  fly  soon  away  ; 
Come  Spring,  sweet  Spring,  with  song  and  flower, 

And  Fancy's  theme  shall  tune  my  lay. 


THE    HOME   OF   MY   CHILDHOOD. 

'T  is  the  home  of  my  youth  I  tenderly  love ! 
There  memory  will  linger  and  fancy  will  rove  : 
Endeared    is    that    spot,   the    loved    spot   of  my 

birth ! 
Entwined  in  my  heart  as  the  sweetest  on  earth. 

There  roses  of  summer  their  sweetness  combine ; 
There  the  dark   hoary  trees   are    clasped  by  the 

vine  ; 
The   streams   near   the   dwelling,  that   gracefully 

flow. 
And    glide    to    the   forest    where    wild    blossoms 

blow. 

Still  utter  in  murmur  their  beautiful  hymn, — 
I  ne'er  will  forget  till  all  Nature  is  dim. 

My   fathers    came    thither   from   Albion's    proud 

isle, 
They   planted  green   trees,  and  they  leveled  its 

soil ; 
There    nourished    brave    sons    till    they    planted 

them  wide, 
Or  gave   them   for   freedom,  —  for  freedom  they 

died! 

8 


114  THE  HOME   OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

Still  fresh  are  the  tales  that  my  ancestors  told 
Of  deeds  of  that  conflict,  that  never  grow  old. 

The  mind  is  absorbed  with  its  burden  of  thought, 
That  volumes  unwritten  to  mem'ry  are  brought ! 
Oh  what  do  I  see,  of  that  tragical  day, 
That  shrouded  my  country  in  mourning  array, 
And  famine  and  terror  its  dwellings  did  keep, 
Where  widows  were    beggared   and    mothers  did 
weep ! 

Though  changed   since   that  time,  it  is  beautiful 

yet,— 

The  home  of  my  childhood  how  shall  I  forget ! 
On  beech-trees   that   grew  on    the   slope   of  the 

hill, 

My  name  I  carved  rudely,  and  there  it  is  still ; 
The  rivulet  glides  with  a  murmur  as  sweet 
As  when  its  first  music  my  childhood  did  greet. 

'T  is  the  home  of  my  youth  I  tenderly  love ! 
There  memory  will  linger  and  fancy  will  rove  : 
Endeared   is   that   spot,  the   loved   home   of  my 

birth ! 
Entwined  in  my  heart  as  the  sweetest  on  earth. 


AGNES. 

A   PASTORAL    LAY. 

"  FAIR  Agnes,  where  art  thou,  sweet  maid  ? 

Thy  flocks  are  not  in  pastures  feeding, 
Nor  yet  beneath  the  greenwood's  shade 
Thy  peaceful  goats  to  rest  are  laid,  — 

Why  art  thou  still  to  me  unheeding? 

"  O'er  every  winding  hill  and  dale, 

In  Nature's  green  and  glorious  season, 
Has  breathed  my  lay,  of  nought  avail,  — 
Has  called  my  fair  in  plaintive  tale, 

Till  darkened  grows  my  sight  and  reason." 

Thus  piped  the  youth  his  fervent  lay, 

As,  wandering  in  his  rural  duty, 
Where  flocks  and  herds  each  sunny  day 
Young  Agnes  led  with  footsteps  gay, 
The  valley's  fairest  shepherd  beauty. 

But  ne'er  on  hill  or  vale  again, 

At  eve,  or  noon,  or  dewy  morning, 
Or  when  shall  wave  the  golden  grain, 
Or  flowers  ambrosial  deck  the  plain, 

Or  torrents  rush  with  fearful  warning,  — 


116  AGNES. 

Or  when  the  amorous  bird  of  spring 

His  mate  with  fond  caress  is  wooing, 
Till  woodlands  deep  melodious  ring 
The  anthems  sweet  they  gaily  sing 
Of  blessed  life  of  Love's  renewing, — 

Shalt  thou  behold  the  maiden  fair, 
To  her  light  footstep  ever  listen : 
The  flocks  with  moans  shall  fill  the  air, 
Shall  vainly  seek  her  tender  care 
To  lead  where  dewy  pastures  glisten. 

A  stranger  sauntering  through  the  grove. 

Of  noble  birth,  he  told  the  maiden, 
Avowed  to  her  his  burning  love,  — 
With  words  impassioned  madly  strove 
To  prove  how  deep  his  heart  was  laden. 

As,  gathering  flowers  beside  the  way, 
Zephyrus  with  her  tresses  playing, 

This  maid  he  spied,  —  what  luckless  day  ! 

My  shuddering  Muse  half  swoons  away, 
And  whispers  low  her  words  with  sighing. 

With  wild  resolves  the  stranger's  eye 

Flashed,  while  the  gentlest  words  he  uttered 
But  careless  to  the  maid  drew  nigh, 
And  blandly  asked  the  reason  why 

She  wandered  there,  and  thus  he  muttered 

<k  By  these  tall  Alps  that  reach  the  sky, 
By  all  their  deep  foundations  hidden  ; 


AGNES.  117 

By  the  soft  lustre  of  her  eye, 

I  swear  by  all  the  powers  on  high, 

She  shall  be  mine,  this  mountain  maiden." 

He  told  her  of  his  castle  home, 

Of  ancient  fame  and  glittering  splendor ; 

That  all  its  wealth  should  be  her  own ; 

That  she  no  more  with  flocks  should  roam, 
But  maidens  daily  should  attend  her. 

"Across  yon  gorge  of  shining  mist, 

A  dainty  path,"  said  he,  "  I  've  chosen  ;  " 
While  she  unconsciously  did  list, 
Her  dimpled  hand  he  often  kissed, 
Then  pressed  it  fondly  to  his  bosom. 

Ill-fated  maid !   ah  wretched  hour ! 

When  he  thy  artless  heart  did  covet ; 
Like  mountain  snows,  thyself  more  pure, 
Such  dreams  of  heaven  thou  didst  insure, 

To  see  thy  face  was  but  to  love  it. 

Bird  of  the  valley's  summer  bower, 

Long  shall  they  watch  for  thy  returning, 

Long  shall  the  vales  thy  loss  deplore  ; 

Thy  kids  shall  hear  thy  voice  no  more 
At  noon,  or  eve,  or  dewy  morning. 

Oft  by  her  cottage  door  shall  she, 

The  mother,  wait  her  darling's  coming ; 
But  oft  the  leaf  shall  deck  the  tree, 


118  AGNES. 

Her  hair  as  white  as  snow  shall  be, 
Ere  half  her  sands  of  life  are  running, 

Upon  the  hills  her  form  shall  stalk, 

With  haggard  face  and  wild  locks  streaming  ; 
A  maniac,  to  the  storms  will  talk, 
And  with  her  child  will  seem  to  walk, 

And  clasp  her  phantom,  madly  screaming,  — 

And  fold  it  to  her  tortured  breast 

With  bony  hands  ;   you  'd  weep  to  see  her 
Soothing  her  birdling  to  its  rest 
Upon  her  heart's  own  downy  nest, 

And  wish  that  death  from  woe  might  free  her. 

Agnes  !   whilst  I  her  fate  pursue, 

Upon  its  close  dread  horror  lieth : 
The  wretch  who  swore  his  love  was  true, 
Plunged  her  adown  afar  from  view, 
In  depths  no  human  eye  descrieth. 

Yearly  the  maids  from  hill  and  vale 
In  snowy  flowers  bedecked  assemble, 

And  chant  the  lay  of  what  befell 

Fair  Agnes  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Till  mountain  echoes  distant  tremble. 

The  midnight  winds  moan  with  the  pine, 

In  sad  lament  a  conference  keepeth  ; 
And  ghosts  are  seen  to  haunt  the  shrine, 
When  moonbeams  pale  at  evening  shine, 
Above  the  gorge  where  Agnes  sleepeth. 


UNKIND   WORDS. 

SPEAK  not  those  bitter  words  ! 

They  '11  echo  back  in  sorrow  ; 
For  she  forever  from  thy  side 

Will  droop  ere  comes  the  morrow. 

Grieve  not  the  faithful  heart 

Upon  thy  love  reposing, 
For  deep,  indeed,  is  nestled  there 

The  gem  thou  'It  grieve  in  losing. 

The  vine  around  the  tree 

By  Nature's  instinct  twineth ; 

The  dove  is  gentle  to  its  mate: 
This,  God  Himself  designeth. 

Oh  speak  not  angry  words, 

They  '11  poison  life  with  weeping, 

And  sink  into  the  trusting  heart 
Whose  joy  is  in  thy  keeping. 


PROLOGUE. 

'T  is  not  to  picture  deeds  where  warriors  fell 
Nor  praise  where  genius  deigns  with  wit  to  dwell, 
Nor  soar  with  eloquence  sublime  on  high, 
Where  laws  mysterious  govern  earth  and  sky, 
Our  thoughts  this  night  engage.     We  here  con- 
vene 

To  while  an  hour  mid  Mirth's  own  joyous  scene : 
'T  is    right.     The    cloud    portentous    lowers    no 

more; 

The  warlike  clarion's  peal  is  hushed  and  o'er ; 
The  sigh  of  beauty  o'er  a  dreaded  fate 
Has  ceased,  and  light  her  heart  once  desolate : 
No  more  the  mother  with  dejected  eye 
Fancies  her  son  in  gore  and  anguish  die ; 
The  statesman  on  his  couch  can  calmly  rest, — 
Anxiety  nor  danger  fill  his  breast ; 
The  enemy  before  a  dreaded  foe 
Has   crouched,  and  friendship's  hand  would  fain 

bestow ; 

Brothers  we  are:  that  Isle  across  the  sea 
Our  fathers  nurtured  ere  this  land  was  free. 
Sure  joy  befits  us ;  who  would  sorrow  here ! 
Who  mar  the  boon  that  dries  a  mortal's  tear! 
Emotions  glad  may  well  rekindle  free 
In  bosoms  of  the  sons  of  liberty. 


PROLOGUE.  121 

Freedom  !  dear  nursling  of  our  inmost  soul, 

Let  no  invader  dare  thy  rights  control ; 

Not  Rome  nor  Greece  such  liberty  could  claim  : 

With  ours  compared,  theirs  only  dwelt  in  name. 

But  not  for  this  our  gladdened  hearts  unite  ; 

'T  is  peace,  with  joy,  we  celebrate  this  night. 

No  link  is  broken  in  affection's  chain  ; 

No  heart  is  suffering  with  bereavment's  pain  ; 

The  father  hastes  his  prattling  child  to  bless ; 

The  infant  springs  to  meet  his  fond  caress ; 

And  all  benign  as  erst,  Hope's  glorious  star 

Scatters  refulgent  light  as  full  and  far. 

The  southern  breeze  comes  with  propitious  gale, 

And   soon   will    commerce   spread    her   whitened 

sail ; 

For  war,  prosperity  will  strengthened  go, 
And  man  in  thee  forget  departed  woe. 
But,  'midst  your  joy,  let  gratitude  arise 
To  Him  who  destines  all  above  the  skies; 
The  little  flower  e'en  looks  to  Him  on  high,  — 
He  taught  it  when  to  blossom,  when  to  die. 

In  mimic  halls  of  government  you  '11  hear 
Sounds  fall  scarce  audible  upon  the  ear ; 
And  o'er  their  councils  held  in  deep  debate, 
With  visage  stern,  the  sages  of  your  State 
Utter  low  murmurs  of  a  coming  storm,  — 
A  storm  that  fills  the  soul  with  wild  alarm ; 
But  here  I'll  not  unfold  —  with  patience  wait: 
'T  is  purest  pleasure  to  anticipate. 
Varied  the  scenes  we  spread  before  your  view, 
In  Satire's  garb  to  paint  a  picture  true. 


RALLYING   SONG. 

YE  sons  of  New  England,  ye  pride  of  the 
nation ! 

Who  boast  of  your  country  wherever  ye  dwell ; 
Its  splendor  and  beauty,  your  love  and  devotion, 

In  strains  of  wild  rapture  how  fondly  we  tell. 

Its  altars  of  freedom  in  glory  enshrined, 

Where   oppression   and   monarchy  never  were 

known  ; 

Where  virtue  and  valor  ennoble  the  mind,  — 
This,  this   is   the   land  which  you  feel  is  your 
own. 

Shall  its  stripes  and  its  stars  in  glory  still  wave, 
The   plough   and   the   sickle   the   yeomen  still 

wield, 
While  groans   of  oppression  from    down-trodden 

slave, 

Resound  in  our   ears   till   our  hearts  are  con- 
gealed — 

Till  stings  of  oppression  have  deadened  the  soul. 
And  the  curses  of  Heaven  our  liberties  blast  ? 


RALLYING  SONG.  123 

Oh  never,  while  yonder  bright  planets  shall  roll, 
Let  spot  for   a   slave   its  bright  prospect  o'er- 
cast. 

Awake,  then,  awake !   like  your  fathers  of  old, 
When  watch-cry  for  freedom  the  green  forests 

stirred,  — 

When  over  Tri-mountain  in  echo  it  rolled, 
From  Bunker's   green   summits  through  king- 
doms was  heard. 

Let  your  watchword  be  Freedom  —  be  Freedom 

for  all— 
Be   Freedom   your  leader,  be   Freedom   your 

guide, 

Till  the  chains  of  the  slave  into  atoms  shall  fall, 
And   the    South    with   the   North    be    forever 
allied. 


A   WISH. 

O  FATHER  !    draw  around  rny  sinful  heart 
Thy  spotless  robe  when  I  depart; 
Let  loving  Memory's  gentle  flame 
Kindle  when  Friendship  breathes  my  name. 


NEW  YEAR'S   EVE. 

THE  sun  is   sinking  'neath  its  golden  bowers 

Of  light  and  beauty  in  yon  western  sky ; 
The  winds  breathe  low,  nor  cloud  nor  tempest 

lowers, 

To  hush  their  wild  ^Eolian  melody. 
Eve  hastens  on,  pinioned  on  rosy  hours, 

And  Nature  breathes  no  melancholy  sigh, 
But  echoes  back  the  song  of  mirth  from  Music's 

bowers, 

And    casts    a    beauteous   smile   upon   the   dying 
hours. 

How  many  hearts  now  welcome  with  delight 
The  gliding  moments  as  they  haste  along, 
And  in  the  festive  halls  of  joy  unite, 

Where  all  is  beauty,  gayety,  and  song; 
These  will  the  heart  and  soul  of  man  invite. 
And    lure    him    to    the    crowd    and    joyous 

throng ; 

And  ye,  oh  ye  may  smile  upon  the  dying  night, 
And  round   her   grave   may  breathe   your  songs 
of  wild  delight. 


126  NEW   YEAR'S  EVE. 

It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  shall  trace 
Of  Time  its  ages  and  its  changes  too, 
And  back  with   Memory's   tide   shall  turn  my 

pace, 

To  view  the  scenes  of  life  once  more  anew,  — 
Scenes  Time  will  never  from  the  soul  erase, 

Or  change  in  beauty  by  their  distant  view  : 
These  dying   hours  will   many  a   hallowed  scene 

embrace, 

Shining   more   bright   in   beauty's  distant  loveli- 
ness. 

Time  has  its  glories,  Time  its  changes  too ! 

Its  ruins,  yes,  —  ah,  who  shall  dare  to  tell ! 
Its    empires    lost  —  dissolved  —  't  is    all    too 

true  — 

And  cities  waste  the  historic  records  swell ; 
Its  changes  dire,  't  is  sad  to  bring  to  view, 

But  on  its  glories  loves  the  Muse  to  dwell : 
And    thou,   departing   year,   hast    glories    not    a 

few, 

As  memory  oft  will  trace  when  thou  art  far  from 
view. 

But  still  there  is  a  solemn  echo  near; 

It  comes  to  chide  or  mingle  in  my  lay: 
It  is  Destruction's  spirit  brooding  here 

O'er  heaps  of  desolation  and  decay ! 
Where  are  those  lofty  piles !   in  ruins  drear ! 

Their  splendor  from  our  city  swept  away! 


NEW   YEAR'S  EVE.  127 

And  sympathetic  woe,  in  many  a  gushing  tear, 
Beholds  the   scene   that   sadly  marks   our   dying 
year. 

Beings    have    passed   who    toiled   for    earthly 

fame, 
That    transient    bauble    on     life's    troubled 

sea,  — 
Who  from  oblivion  sought  to  save  a  name, — 

A  name  !   how  sweet  to  human  vanity ! 
It  fires  the  soul  with  passions  that  inflame, 

And  dazzling  leads  the  'wildered  mind  astray ; 
But  Virtue's  deeds  beyond  the  dying  year  shall 

claim, 
Beyond  the  stars,  the  laurel  of  immortal  fame. 

Pale  year !  thy  rainbow  glories  all  are  fled  ! 

Thy  flowers  bereft  of  life  and  beauty's  bloom  ; 
And,  ah !  turn  to  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
And  coldly  there,  within  the  silent  tomb, 
Rests  many  a  fair  and  beauteous  head, 

The  victim  of  a  long  and  lonely  doom ; 
But  man  shall  lift  more  beautiful  his  fallen  head, 
When   Time's    last   dawn    eternal   glories   round 
shall  shed. 

Farewell !   the  evening  lamp  is  burning  low ; 

Farewell    once    more,   thou    dear   departing 

year; 
I  '11  tread  the  threshold  solemnly  and  slow, 

To  wait  upon  thy  lingering  moments  here, 


128  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

For  soon,  too  soon,  thou  wilt  departed  go, 

With  all  thy  hopes  and  warm  affections  clear. 
Farewell !  wrapt  in  a  shroud  of  heaven's  ethereal 

snow, 
Back  to  the  tomb  of  ages  thou  must  mouldering 


MY   BIRTHPLACE. 

How  we  cling  to   the  spot,  the  loved  spot  of  our 

birth ! 
'T  is   the   best,   't  is    the   holiest,   we    find    upon 

earth : 
Other  scenes   may   delight  us,  they  fix   not  the 

heart ; 
'T  is  the  home   of  our  childhood  that  ne'er  will 

depart. 

Even  years  may  roll  on,  but  more  beautiful  still 
Grows  the  forest,  the  valley,  the  wild  wood,  and 

rill; 
For  there  our  young  footsteps   first  pressed  the 

green  sod; 
There  we  lisped  our  first  accents,  and  learned  of 

a  God. 


TO   NELLIE. 

MAIDEN  of  the  sunny  South, 
With  thy  glossy  hair  of  jet, 

Flashing  eyes  and  laughing  mouth, 
Thou  our  loving  little  pet,  — 

In  thy  glittering  row  of  teens, 
In  their  rainbow  wreath  of  light, 

Thou  hast  entered  on  their  scenes, 
Dazzling  to  thy  youthful  sight. 

Fairy  castles  thou  wilt  build, 

Where  no  woe  can  entrance  find ; 

All  thy  soul  with  hope  be  filled,  — 
'T  is  the  nature  of  the  mind. 

Where  the  path  of  duty  lies, 

Thorns  amongst  the  roses  grow ; 

Tears,  and  smiles,  and  broken  sighs, 
Every  moment  round  it  flow. 

'T  is  the  nature  of  our  life, 
Nellie  dear,  our  little  pet ; 

And  thy  duty  in  the  strife 
Is  unknown  to  mortal  yet. 


TO  NELLIE.  131 

None  can  glide  on  tranquil  seas 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave; 

Trim  thy  sail  and  watch  the  breeze,  — 
There  is  glory  for  the  brave. 

Tints  of  summer  soon  will  fade, 
Autumn's  vesture  splendid  glow 

Birds  that  warble  in  the  shade, 
With  thee  to  thy  home  will  go, — 

Where  the  golden  orange  bends, 
There  to  sing  in  melting  strains 

Nellie's  welcome  to  her  friends 

From  the  land  where  genius  reigns. 

Maiden  of  the  sunny  land, 

May  thy  Father  from  on  high 

Guide  thee  with  His  gentle  hand, 
Through  life's  journey  to  the  sky. 


SONG   TO  THE   NIGHT   BIRD. 

O  FLY  to  this  thicket,  sweet  minstrel  of  night, 
For  the  heavens  are  moonlit,  and  cloudless,  and 

bright ; 
The  sea-nymphs  are   out  from   their  grottoes  of 

sleep, 
And  lightly  abroad  on  the  face  of  the  deep. 

The  flowers  are  blooming  on  orange  and  lime, 
And  Araby's  jessamine  breathes  out  her  balm ; 
The  dew-drops  are  dripping  from  tree  and  from 

flower ; 
Then  gladden  with  singing  this  beautiful  hour. 

Then    haste,    lonely    minstrel,    from    yon    silent 

vale; 

The  roses  will  wither,  the  lilies  grow  pale  ; 
The  summer  is  wearing  her  bright  golden  sheaf; 
Thy  song  only  lives  with  the  green  of  the  leaf. 

Then   haste,   thou   sweet   minstrel,    from   silence 

and  shade, 

Come  hither  and  warble  a  sweet  serenade 
Oh  soothe  the  lone  heart  from  its  kindred  afar,  — 
Oh  sing  by  the  light  of  yon  beautiful  star. 


THE  EXILE'S   EVENING   REVERIES. 
I.    RECOLLECTIONS   OF  DEPARTED  DAYS. 

'T  is  evening,  and  I  hear  the  nightingale 
Breathing  its  lonely,  melancholy  tale, 

So  pensively  into  the  ear  of  Night; 
From  yonder  land  it  brings  the  pensive  chime 
Of  memories  wafted  down  the  tide  of  time, 

And  other  days  rush  on  my  mental  sight. 

And  I  have  seen  as  bright  and  glorious  days 
As  ever  circled  round  a  mortal's  ways ; 

And  I  've  had  griefs  —  such,  few  can  ever  know. 
Lone  are  the  musings  of  a  broken  heart,  — 
No  kindred  friend  !     O  Tyranny,  thou  art 

The  fiend  that  spread'st   this   beauteous  world 
with  woe. 

The  infant,  sporting  with  its  silken  hair, 
Knows  not  of  manhood's  joy  or  manhood's  care, 

Or  why  the  sigh  so  often  heaves  his  breast. 
My  childhood's   hours   were   pure   and    blest    as 

thine ; 
Affection  wooed  me  at  her  hallowed  shrine, 

And  sweetly  soothed  the  pillow  of  my  rest. 


134          THE  EXILE'S  EVENING  REVERIES. 


II.  TIME. 

Fleeting  is  life  as  summer's  passing  cloud ; 
A  day,  an  hour,  a  little  space  allowed, 

And  man  to  earthly  scenes  returns  no  more. 
Time  ceaseless  rolls  its  swift,  untiring  flight; 
Race  after  race  is  hurried  from  our  sight : 

O  Time  !   man  little  doth  thy  loss  deplore. 

Mortal,  the  transient  insect  of  an  hour, 
At  every  breath  grasps  for  the  rod  of  power ; 
'T  is  music  to  his  ear  —  the  moans  of  man ; 
Through    human    blood    he    wades    to    reach   a 


crown 


When  won,  another   takes  and  hurls  him  down : 
Frail  glory  sought,  thus  ends  his  earthly  span. 

Youth,  radiant  as  the  lovely  morning  meek, 
Time  plucks  the  roses  from  his  glowing  cheek, 

And  bends  with  age  the  human  form  divine ; 
Time  peoples  Death's  vast  noisome  sepulchre  ! 
The  king  and  slave  alike  he  doth  inter  : 

Unsparing  Time  !  these  are  thy  trophies,  thine ! 


III.  FAME. 

Why  waste   the   midnight   lamp's  faint  glim'ring 

light, 
In  toiling  up  to  Fame's  far  dazzling  height  ? 


THE  EXILE'S  EVENING  REVERIES.         135 

When  gained,  poor  man,  ah,  what  is  that  to  thee  ? 
The  spark  we  mortals  cherish  here  within, 
To  leave  a  name  in  this  dark  world  of  sin ! 

Oh  blindness,  'tis  thy  wild  philosophy. 

Strive  for  a  name  on  God's  own  holy  page, 
And  thou  shalt  share  His  glorious  heritage, 

And  rest  fore'er  in  skies  without  a  frown. 
It  will  for  pain,  for  earthly  grief  atone, 
To  dwell  forever  at  the  eternal  throne, 

To  wear  an  angel's  bright,  immortal  crown ! 

Fame,  wealth,  and  honor,  you  are  like  a  dream, 
Or  shining  bubbles  floating  on  the  stream ; 

And  what  is  lore,  save  it  our  souls  improve,  — 
Save  that  it  train  to  God  the  heart  alone, 
That  His  unchanging  love  may  be  our  own, 

That  we  in  death  may  find  a  rest  above ! 


IV.  PIETY. 

As  shines  the  star  in  yon  ethereal  blue, 
As  morning  sunbeams  to  the  drops  of  dew, 

So  piety  illumes  the  Christian's  breast; 
Serene  to  heaven  it  turns  the  sinner's  soul ; 
Pure  and  sublime,  it  points  to  that  bright  goal,  — 

Points  where  the  stricken  mourner  finds  a  rest ! 


136         THE  EXILE'S  EVENING  REVERIES. 

As  soothes  the  ear  the  wind's  low  gentle  sigh, 
So  whispers  Hope  of  immortality ; 

And  when  these  atoms  crumble  with  the  clod, 
Pure  from  the  fountain  of  Eternal  Love, 
Faith  whispers  that  the  soul  in  worlds  above 

Rests  pure  and  holy  near  the  throne  of  God. 

As  west  winds  on  the  ocean  sink  to  rest ; 
As  evening  stills  the  tempest  on  its  breast, 

And  scarce  the  gentlest  ripple  seems  to  rise, 
So  is  the  love  of  God  to  sinners  sent, 
To  check  the  wayward  soul  so  reckless  bent, 

And  train  the  immortal  spirit  for  the  skies  ! 


I   DO   NOT  LIKE   THIS   CITY   LIFE. 

I  DO  not  like  this  city  air, 

So  much  with  me  it  disagrees; 
I  fain  would  seek  the  country  fair, 

And  breathe  its  cool  and  bracing  breeze. 
I  love  to  put  my  bonnet  on, 

And  wander  o'er  the  meads  unseen, 
And,  if  I  please,  to  sit  me  down, 

Where  Nature  spreads  her  carpet  green, 

And  see  the  lambkins  round  me  play,  — 

It  does  my  heart  so  much  of  good ; 
Unlike  the  city's  filthy  way, 

I  would  forsake  it  if  I  could. 
I  cannot  bear  this  rumbling  sound, 

It  palls  upon  my  weary  ear  ; 
I  would  away,  and  fain  be  found 

Where  Nature  rolls  her  music  clear. 

I  'd  listen  to  the  robin's  song 
At  morn  upon  the  orchard  tree  : 

'T  would  rouse  me  with  its  carolling 
To  drink  the  morning  breezes  free. 

I  '111  sick  of  splendor  and  of  show, 
I  'm  tired  of  Fashion's  gay  attire ; 


138         I  DO  NOT  LIKE  THIS   CITY  LIFE. 

But  in  the  country  't  is  not  so,  — 
Simplicity  I  most  admire. 

I  fancy  oft  the  calm  retreat, 

Where  I  would  spend  these  summer  days, 
Surrounded  by  some  landscape  sweet, 

Of  valleys,  streams,  and  flowery  ways ; 
And  there  I  'd  read  from  Nature's  book, 

Of  yonder  heavens,  the  earth,  and  star,  — 
Of  tree,  of  ocean,  and  of  brook, 

And  things  sublime  unfolded  there. 

When  twilight  cast  its  shadows  dim, 

And  burning  glowed  in  yonder  sky, 
I  'd  list,  to  hear  the  holy  hymn 

That  Nature  breathes  to  God  on  high. 
I  know  we  have  our  music  here, 

It  peals  from  every  filthy  way  ; 
It  makes  me  sick,  it  wounds  my  ear,  — 

In  short,  I  cannot  bear  to  stay. 

The  clock  peals  out  the  passing  hours,— 

How  dull,  indeed,  they  seem  to  roll ! 
Oh  for  the  vales,  the  streams,  and  flowers, 

And  scenes  that  sweet  enchant  the  soul! 
Where  pestilence  doth  never  walk, 

Sweeping  its  millions  with  the  dead ; 
Nor  vice,  corrupt,  essay  to  stalk, 

Or  round  its  atmosphere  doth  spread. 


THE   DYING   EMIGRANT  MOTHER. 

WITH  sorrow,  oh  my  heart  is  sadly  wrung ; 
Grief's  sable  mantle  round  my  soul  is  flung ; 

From  life  I  wither  in  its  early  morn : 
Gone  is  the  chosen  being  of  my  hours ; 
Sorrow,  dark  sorrow,  keenly  o'er  me  lowers ; 

I  fade,  a  being  pensive  and  forlorn. 

I  soon  must  yield  my  breath,  I  can  no  more ; 
To  yonder  sky  my  spirit  soon  must  soar, 

Bright  seraphs  bear  to  regions  of  the  blest ; 
No  longer  shall  this  breast,  by  sorrow  torn, 
Wither  like  the  young  lambkin  rudely  shorn, 

But  down  I  '11  lay  in  Death's  cold  sleep  to  rest. 

Frail  is  my  life  as  yonder  withering  flower; 
Blighted  and  faded  by  the  passing  shower, 

Drooping  it  hangs  upon  its  fragile  stem: 
Like  that  hath  sorrow  bowed  my  aching  head  ; 
Friends  are  afar,  or  sleeping  with  the  dead  — 

The  dead,  I  go  ere  long  to  sleep  with  them. 

But  ere  I  close  on  earth  my  mortal  eye, 
Ere  to  its  scenes  I  breathe  my  farewell  sigh, 


140          THE  DYING  EMIGRANT  MOTHER. 

To  God,  to  God,  I  give  my  all,  —  my  child! 
Father,  hear  Thou  the  dying  mother's  prayer; 
My  child  I  yield  to  Thy  paternal  care  ; 

Oh  soothe  my  burning  brow  and  pulses  wild. 

Come,  let  me  part  thy  soft  and  silken  hair, 
And  print  a  kiss  upon  thy  brow  so  fair; 

Yes,  let  me  gaze  upon  thy  meek  blue  eye ; 
Never,  oh,  mayest  thou  feel  affliction  wild. 

0  God,  be  Thou  the  Father  of  my  child, 
And  soothed  will  be  the  dying  mother's  sigh. 

Tears,  burning  tears,  roll  down  my  fading  cheek  ; 
Choked  are  the  accents  that  my  lips  would  speak  ; 

O  God,  fore'er  the  fatherless  Thou  'It  own  ! 
Unmarked  for  aye  by  mortal,  friend  or  foe, 
Unheeded  now  the  dying  mother's  woe, 

Unseen  by  all,  save  Thee,  O  God,  alone. 

1  meet  no  kindred  from  my  native  land, 

No  friend  to  soothe  me  with  affection's  hand ; 

My  husband  rests  beneath  yon  new  made  sod  ; 
Alone  I  weep  the  widow's  burning  tear ; 
No  friends  the  weeping  mother  see  or  hear,  — 

None  come  to  soothe  her,  dying,  save  her  God. 

As  wanes  from  yonder  sky  the  lamp  of  day, 
So  fade  the  embers  of  my  life  away  ; 

To  Heaven's  most  holy  will  I  yield  my  breath. 
O  God,  Thou  'It  be  the  Father  of  my  child ; 
It  is  enough  ;  all,  all  is  reconciled ; 

In  peace  I  '11  lay  me  down  to  rest  in  death. 


THE  DYING  EMIGRANT  MOTHER.          141 

Once  more,  my  child,  I  '11  gaze  upon  thy  face  ; 
Lo!   here,  how  pure  the  lineaments  I  trace, 

How  perfect  is  thy  father  imaged  here; 
Love  thou,  my  gentle  one,  thy  God  alone,  — 
Thy  parents  thou  shalt  meet  before  His  throne. 

Farewell,  the  last  for  thee  this  burning  tear. 

I  feel  death's  struggles  rising  in  my  breast, 
My  spirit  longs  for  heaven's  eternal  rest, 

For  nought  of  earth  can  joy  or  sorrow  bring. 
Angels,  I  long  for  yon  eternal  day; 
My  spirit's  winged  to  soar  to  worlds  away: 

Death  to  the  dying  Christian  has  no  sting! 


MARCH. 

MOTHER,  it  is  a  pleasant  day, 
And  long  since  I  was  out  to  play; 
Why  should  I  here  so  prisoned  stay  ? 

Around  me  nought  is  sad  ; 
The  sun  shines  bright  upon  the  rill, 
The  lambs  are  sporting  on  the  hill, 
The  air  is  warm  and  very  still,  — 

See !   everything  is  glad. 

How  gay  are  Nature's  living  things; 

The  fly  creeps  forth  and  shakes  his  wings, 

And,  darting  onward,  gaily  springs  ; 

I  feel  as  sportive  too. 
The  robin  sings  on  every  tree, 
No  note  of  sorrow  warbles  he, 
I  know  how  happy  he  must  be, — 

Sweet  bird  I  feel  like  you. 

And  from  his  dark  and  wintry  sleep 
The  little  turtle  forth  doth  creep, 
And  long  at  eve  I  hear  him  peep 

From  every  silent  place ; 
The  water  sings  as  on  it  flows, 
Green  on  its  bank  the  verdure  grows, 
Where  late  so  hid  from  deepening  snows 

And  frowning  Winter's  face. 


PICUS-QUERULUS. 

THE  snow-flakes  thickly  round  are  flying, 
Bleak  hollow  winds  about  are  sighing : 

Why  comest  thou  thus,  untimely  stranger  ? 
'T  is  winter  o'er  the  landscape  dreary ; 
Say,  of  its  rudeness  art  thou  weary, 

Thou  pretty  bird,  thou  lonely  ranger? 

And  why  that  look  intense  demanding, 
That  tells  thy  wants  without  commanding, — 

The  language  which  our  heart  portrays  ? 
'T  is  hunger,  ah !  methinks  that 's  telling, 
What  in  thine  eye  and  bosom  's  swelling, 

Of  feelings  which  thy  heart  displays. 

Then  take  these  crumbs  our  darling  gives  thee ; 
Stay,  beauteous  bird,  that  she  may  see 

Thy  crimson  head  and  speckled  plumage  gay ; 
Nay,  let  her  shield  thee,  winter  's  dreary ; 
Sweet  little  bird,  she  'd  ne'er  be  weary, 

No,  never,  of  thy  warbling  company. 

Come  often  round  our  snowy  dwelling, 
With  gentle  lay  thy  presence  telling, 


144 


PICUS-QUERULUS. 


Or  make  thy  winter  home  for  aye  with  me 
And  thou  shalt  fare  on  richest  dainty, 
Thy  meal  shall  ne'er  be  poor  or  scanty ; 

Come,  pretty  minstrel,  our  companion  be. 

The  fowler  from  thy  presence  spurning, 
We  'd  guard  thee  with  a  kind  discerning ; 

And  when  thy  little  form  is  weary, 
Would  help  thee  fold  thy  wing  so  smoothing, 
The  while  caress  so  sweet  and  soothing, 

That  winter  would  not  seem  so  dreary. 


THE   SISTER   TO   HER   SICK    BROTHER. 

LAY  thy  head,  my  only  brother, 
On  thy  anxious  sister's  cheek  ; 

We  have  dearly  loved  each  other, 
With  a  love  no  words  can  speak. 

Thou  hast  long  been  absent,  brother; 

Many  moons  and  suns  have  set 
Since  we  parted  with  each  other, 

And  the  tears  thy  blue  eyes  wet. 

We,  with  sister,  dearest  brother, 

Fondly  to  each  other  cling; 
We  have  lived  in  love  together, 

Like  the  nestling  birds  of  spring. 

You  remember  how  our  mother 

Made  our  home  a  garden  scene,  — 

Called  thy  sisters  lilies,  brother; 

You,  the  rose  that  bloomed  between. 

Could  I  see  thee,  O  my  brother, 
Full  of  health  as  then  thou  wert,  — 

See  thee  smile  as  smiles  no  other, 
How  't  would  ease  my  aching  heart ! 
10 


146      THE  SISTER    TO  HER  SICK  BROTHER. 

But  thou  sadly  droopest,  brother ; 

Let  me  smooth  thy  tresses  fair,  — 
Let  me  kiss  thee,  while  I  smother 

Thoughts  within  thou  must  not  share. 

Thou  art  growing  feeble,  brother; 

Few  the  words  that  thou  dost  speak; 
Lay  thy  head,  my  only  brother, 

On  thy  loving  sister's  cheek. 


THE   PARASITE. 

THERE  blooms  a  splendid  flower, 
Where  Demerara's  waters  flow ; 

It  takes  no  root  in  earth, 

Nor  there  its  blossoms  deign  to  blow. 

It  blooms  not  on  the  rock, 

Or  where  the  sultry  sunbeams  light ; 
It  blooms  not  on  the  wave, 

Or  dizzy  mountains'  snowy  height. 

The  snow-flake  never  fell 

Where  Nature  rears  this  gorgeous  flower 
But  breezes  love  it  well, 

And  wanton  gayly  in  its  bower. 

'T  is  a  mysterious  thing, 

A  wonder  of  the  floral  race, 
Blooming  where  wild  birds  sing, 

Obscure,  without  a  hiding-place !. 

Within  the  woodland  deep, 

Where  tropic  suns  faint  access  find, 
Far  up  the  towering  tree, 

In  one  grand  garden-bloom  combined  — 


148  THE  PARASITE. 

Lo,  there  it  blooms  and  fades! 

Its  life  deriving  from  the  tree, 
Twining  aloft  its  rainbow  shades, 

A  wonder  and  a  mystery. 


WAR   OF   THE   EUROPEAN  ALLIES 
WITH   RUSSIA. 

CRIMEA  !   land  of  blood  —  the  dread. 

Untimely  sepulchre  of  man ! 
Ambition  has  its  caverns  fed, 

And  still  its  fires  of  death  doth  fan. 

See  old  Sarmatia's  murd'rous  steel 

Plunged  deadly  deep  in  Gallia's  heart; 

Albion  beholds  with  pious  zeal, 

And  backward  hurls  the  murd'rous  dart. 

Is  it  revenge,  or  is  it  fear, 

Or  is  it  jealousy's  dread  hate, 
That  aims  the  stroke  with  force  severe, 

And  makes  the  hearth-stone  desolate  ? 

Myriads  upon  the  gory  earth, 

In  awful  death  —  in  carnage  dire, 

Far  from  the  scenes  that  gave  them  birth, 
Upon  thy  battle-fields  expire. 

Yet,  while  the  Euxine's  turbid  wave 

Shall  lash  thy  shores  with  frowning  wail, 

The  world  may  call  thy  battles  brave, 

And  smile  to  read  the  conquerors'  tale  — 


150  EUROPEAN  WAR    WITH  RUSSIA. 

Aye,  smile  to  read  thy  bloody  tale, 
Darkening  the  light  of  moral  sense  ; 

Call  glory  all,  if  Might  prevail, 

Though  Right  might  compromise  offense. 

Forever  roll,  thou  darkened  sea, 

The  death  dirge  of  thy  warriors  brave, 

Who  fought  thy  battles  gloriously, 
But  nameless  filled  a  nameless  grave. 


THE   EMBLEM. 

MAIDEN,  take  these  snowy  blossoms, 
Braid  them  in  thy  silken  hair ; 

When  they  fade,  learn  thou  the  lesson, 
Emblem  of  thyself  they  are. 

Thou,  like  them,  art  fresh  and  lovely, 
In  the  bloom  of  thy  young  day  ; 

May  no  touch  of  earth  too  roughly 
Steal  thy  angel  bloom  away. 

Like  these  blossoms  beauty  fadeth, 
Like  their  fragrance  friendships  die ; 

Care  the  brow  of  sunshine  shade th, 
Change  is  written  on  the  sky. 

Turn  thine  eye  above  thee,  maiden, 
Still  beyond,  where  planets  roll ; 

Beauty  there  no  changes  knoweth, — 
'T  is  the  beauty  of  the  soul. 


THE   NOONDAY   SHOWER. 

Ho !   welcome  to  the  sudden  shower, 

From  heaven's  full  chalice  brisk  it  falls ; 

How  fresh  its  breath  at  noonday  hour, 
That  floats  along  these  city  walls. 

The  cool  wind  shakes  from  off  the  tree 
The  clinging  dust  that  on  it  lies ; 

And  drops  of  rain  are  falling  free 
Adown  the  heated  summer  skies. 

The  little  torrents  quickly  flow, 

Gurgling  in  cadence  through  the  street ; 
And  people  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

Wonder  the  sudden  shower  to  meet. 

The  drooping  flower  lifts  up  its  head  — 
No  more  appears  a  withered  thing  ; 

But  to  the  rain  its  cup  is  spread,  — 
To  catch  the  breeze  it  lifts  its  wing. 

The  noonday  sun,  day  after  day, 

Hath  sent  profuse  its  scorching  rays ; 

Night  after  night,  with  sleepless  eye, 
Oppressed,  we  longed  for  cooler  days. 


THE  NOONDAY  SHOWER.  153 

Oh,  sure  we  never  wish  in  vain 

For  God's  good  gifts ;   at  every  breath, 

Like  droppings  of  the  summer  rain, 
They  shower  upon  us  until  death. 

Onward  the  cloud  its  mission  goes, 
Freighted  with  good,  away,  away ! 

Distributing  to  friends  and  foes 
The  blessings  of  its  transient  stay. 

The  snowy  fleece  beyond  that  lies, — 
Beyond  it,  high  in  upper  air, — 

Is  rolling  back,  and  swiftly  flies 

To  give  the  blue  that 's  hidden  there. 

Forth  breaks  the  sun,  with  rays  subdued,  — 
All  passed  away  the  sultry  heat; 

Nature,  with  glory  fresh  imbued, 
Beneath  its  smile  is  seen  complete. 

Erelong  the  dark,  eternal  cloud, 
That  hangs  before  the  mortal  eye, 

With  not  a  glance  beyond  allowed, 
Like  yonder  cloud  more  swift  will  fly. 

Yet,  when  that  veil  is  rent  away, 
The  mortal  eye  no  more  shall  see  ; 

But  slumbering  deep  in  kindred  clay, 
Will  leave  the  deathless  spirit  free. 


154 


THE  NOONDAY  SHOWER. 


Brighter  than  scenes  on  which  I  gaze, 
That  melt  in  rapture  all  the  soul, 

Will  be  revealed  those  mystic  ways, 
That  science  here  cannot  unroll. 


GOLD. 

"  I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream." 

WHEN  Nature,  curtained  deep  in  night, 
Had  shut  her  scenes  from  mortal  sight, 
And  o'er  the  woodland,  hill,  and  dell, 
The  hush  of  night  in  grandeur  fell, 
And  softer  than  the  breath  that  flows, 
That  stirs  no  leaf,  but  opes  the  rose, 
There  stole  o'er  me  that  mystery  deep, 
That  charms  the  sense  in  gentle  sleep. 

And  in  my  dream  a  Genius  fair, 
With  silver  wing  and  golden  hair, 
A  beautiful,  unearthly  thing, 
Gave  me,  like  hers,  a  silver  wing, 
And  bade  me  with  her  dare  to  soar 
Away,  where  stretches  bold  a  shore, 
That  holds  through  all  creation  wide 
The  mightiest  and  the  gentlest  tide  ; 
Where  boundless  Ocean  meets  the  view, 
The  calm  Pacific's  waste  of  blue, 
Which  folds  the  sinking  sun  to  rest, 
In  the  soft  ripple  of  its  breast. 


156  GOLD. 

Cliffs  lofty,  scorn  the  battering  cloud, 
And  high  their  tops  in  ether  shroud ; 
Streams  winding  on  in  splendor  bold, 
Sweep  over  beds  of  virgin  gold. 
Bright  vales  more  beauteous  meet  the  view, 
Than  fair  Thessalia  ever  knew, 
And  heavenward  raised,  in  beauty  lie, 
To  greet  the  mountain  wanderer's  eye. 
And  there,  from  yon  bright  orb  on  high, 
Sweet  spirits  come  to  earth  to  sigh 
O'er  the  lost  glory  of  their  fame,  — 
The  glory  of  the  Aztec  name. 
And  on  a  harp,  aerial  strung, 
These  spirits  played  and  requiems  sung, 
So  sad  and  wild,  so  sweet  and  clear, 
The  mountain  wanderer  wept  to  hear. 
They  told  how  haughty  Cortez  came 
And  robbed  them  of  their  Aztec  name, 
And  beauteous  Tenochtitlan  gave 
To  strangers  rude  beyond  the  wave ; 
And  ever  will  their  requiems  tell 
How  Montezuma's  glory  fell. 

The  Genius  raised  her  silver  wing, 
And  sought  a  cool,  refreshing  spring, 
Where  with  her  golden  hair  she  played, 
O'er  the  fair  mirror  Nature  made ; 
And  whilst  her  gentle  wings  did  rest, 
These  words  to  me  she  thus  addressed:  — 
"  You  know,  that  gold  the  heart  of  man 
Has  ruled  since  Earth  her  cycles  ran, 


GOLD.  157 

Or,  since  a  mortal  he  was  made, 
And  from  his  Paradise  he  strayed. 
These  mountains,  towering  high  and  bold, 
Are  filled  with  mines  of  purest  gold, 
That  man  might  here  his  passion  cloy, 
E'en  though  it  should  his  soul  destroy. 

"  Then  grasping  Avarice  raised  its  head, 
And  sung  from  out  this  golden  bed 
O'er  the  wide  world  the  magic  lay ; 
Entranced  the  heart  of  man  away ; 
Proud  Science,  with  her  eagle  eye, 
Turned  from  her  starry  walk  on  high ; 
Strong  hands  which  did  the  ploughshare  wield, 
Forsook  it,  standing  in  the  field ; 
As  breathed  the  bride  hymeneal  vow, 
The  bridal  wreath  dropped  from  her  brow  ; 
And  children  wept  and  mothers  sighed 
That  gold  should  trusting  hearts  divide. 
Hordes  eager  from  the  cities  came, — 
All  grades,  all  sects  that  bear  a  name, 
Like  insects  on  Egyptia's  shore, 
That  covered  far  earth's  surface  o'er. 

"  Now  Avarice  bold  its  strife  began, 
Its  sceptre  raised  o'er  fallen  man, — 
O'er  man,  his  Maker's  darling  child, 
Whom  Earth  caressed  and  for  him  smiled ; 
Reared  her  bright  groves,  her  meads,  and  bowers, 
And  filled  his  lap  with  fruits  and  flowers ; 
Whom  God  hath  given  a  deathless  soul, 


158  GOLD. 

To  shine  when  stars  shall  cease  to  roll. 
Earth,  heaven,  before  his  eyes  grow  dim, 
*  For  gold,  for  gold,'  is  all  to  him  ; 
And  in  his  wild,  ambitious  plan, 
Crushed  are  the  high  pursuits  of  man. 
And  lo !    on  yon  Pacific's  shore, 
He    digs  for  gold,  for  shining  ore ! 
But  kind  Affection's  angel  smile 
Plays  not  around  his  heart  the  while  ; 
Nor  meek  Religion's  watchful  eye, 
To  turn  his  thoughts  to  God  on  high  : 
Earth  and  its  treasure  are  his  goal, 
And  gold  the  idol  of  his  soul." 

As  chidings  on  the  breeze  went  by, 
Thus  spoke  the  Genius,  with  a  sigh  :  — 
"  'T  was  gold  curs'd  fair  Castilia's  land, 
And  nerveless  made  her  powerful  hand  ;  . 
Her  genius  high  in  slumber  hushed, 
Her  spirit  proud  forever  crushed. 
Now  man  again  to  dust  is  bowed, 
And  misery  all  his  hopes  may  cloud." 
The  Genius  wept,  the  silence  broke, 
And  I  to  earthly  cares  awoke. 


ANNIVERSARY   ODE, 

WRITTEN  FOR    THE    CELEBRATION    OF   THE    4TH  OF 
JULY   AT   HUNTINGDON,    LONG   ISLAND,    1849. 

HAIL  !  to  the  blest  day  that  has  greeted  our  land. 
The  birthday  of  Freedom,  our  glory  and  pride  ! 

O'er  mountain  and  valley,  to  Mexico's  strand, 
The  glad  voice  of  jubilee  pours  forth  its  tide ; 

Great  Nature  has  put  on  her  mantle  of  green, 

And  bends  in  her  beauty  o'er  Liberty's  scene ; 

Our   ocean-bound   Isle,    where    the   wild    surges 
break, 

The  anthems  of  Liberty  loudly  awake. 

Through  the  land  of  our  birth, 

Pride  and  glory  of  earth, 
The  land  where  no  despot  a  sceptre  hath  swayed ; 

Like  our  mountains  sublime, 

Scorning  tempest  and  time, 
As  firm  was  the  base  of  its  liberty  laid. 

Our  banner  unfurled  to  the  breezes  on  high, 
Floats  gayly  in  triumph  as  ever  before ; 

How  bright  are  its  stars !  how  blue  is  its  sky ! 
The  same  that  our  fathers  to  victory  bore. 


160  ANNIVERSARY  ODE. 

The  treasure   they  gave,  while   life's  blood  shall 

flow, 

Like  a  rampart  shall  guard  from  Liberty's  foe ; 
The  spirit  so  bold,  which  our  fathers  possessed, 
As  children  we  feel  it  still  warming  our  breast. 

In  this  land  of  our  birth, 

Pride  and  glory  of  earth, 
The  land  where  no  despot  a  sceptre  hath  swayed  ; 

Like  our  mountains  sublime, 

Scorning  tempest  and  time, 
As  firm  was  the  base  of  its  liberty  laid. 

Let  hearts  full  of  gratitude  breathe  out  the  lay, 
Let  it   echo  from   mountain,   from  valley,   and 

lake  ; 
May  the  breezes  of  heaven  e'en  waft  it  away, 

Till  Liberty's  voice  every  nation  shall  wake. 
May  its  blessings  forever  encircle  this  spot, 
The  struggle  for  Liberty  ne'er  be  forgot, 
Till  its  glory  and  beauty  to  all  are  unfurled, 
And  Freedom's  proud  banner  floats  over  a  world. 

From  this  land  of  our  birth, 

Pride  and  glory  of  earth, 
The  land  where  no  despot  a  sceptre  hath  swayed ; 

Like  our  mountains  sublime, 

Scorning  tempest  and  time, 
As  firm  be  the  base  of  its  liberty  laid. 


VALENTINE   TO   A   POET. 

RAREST  flowers  a  minstrel  brings, 

Wreathed  with  laurels  round  thy  name. 
Bright  as  those  from  vales  and  streams. 

Fresh  and  beauteous  as  thy  fame. 
Down  through  lapse  of  coming  years. 

Long  thy  lays  shall  roll  sublime  ; 
Bards  shall  look,  with  hoary  seers, 

Up  "  the  corridors  of  time," 
Where  thy  harp,  with  Nature  grand. 

In  our  country  had  its  birth; 
Where  these  hills  and  forests  stand, 

Whence  thy  fame  had  filled  the  earth. 
Ere  the  races  long  extinct, 

Noble  men  of  forests  wild, 
Which  thou  hast  together  linked,  — 

Linked  the  chains  of  Nature's  child : 
They  shall  inspiration  drink 

From  the  fountains  of  thy  mind  ; 
Ancient  fame  in  shadows  sink, 

At  the  fame  thou  'st  left  behind. 


11 


THE   POET. 

No  mortal  ear  can  hear  those  melting  strains 

That  move  the  poet  with  celestial  fire: 
Far,  far  above  a  world  of  self  he  reigns, 

And  tunes  the  notes  that  warble  from  his  lyre. 
Remote  from  envy  and  each  low  desire, 

The  wealth  of  millions  has  no  power  to  charm  ; 
Though  poor  and  homeless,  sweeter  still  he  sings 

From   heart   with    love   of   Nature   deep   and 

warm 
O'erladen,  beating  from  its  raptured  strings. 

One  lay,  melodious,  warbles  round  his  heart, 
To  which  his  fancy  fain  would  stretch  its  wings, 

Ere  his  dull  mortal  coil  on  earth  shall  part ; 
Who  sings  it  shall  obtain  immortal  fame, 

And  be  entitled  to  a  Poet's  name. 


TO   MY   BRIEF    COMPANION  AT  THE 
OLD   HOMESTEAD. 

THOU  fairy  little  winsome  bird, 
That  singest  sweet  upon  the  tree, 

Thy  song  hath  charmed  my  lonely  heart ; 
Entranced,  I  look  and  list  to  thee. 

Ah,  blissful  bird !   how  free  thy  life, 
Ne'er  prone  to  sorrow  or  to  weep  ; 

Sure  joy  ne'er  smiles  on  mortal  man 
So  pure,  with  all  his  reason  deep. 

Pale  care  hath  stifled  every  song ; 

Ambition  runs,  but  finds  no  goal; 
He  covets  all  but  simple  joys, — 

Those  meant  by  God  to  rule  his  soul. 

Thy  day  is  bliss,  thy  night  is  sweet, 
With  thy  bright  head  beneath  thy  wing ; 

No  revel  with  accursed  pang 

Doth  thy  pure  bosom  ever  sting. 

No  th  robbings  of  a  poisoned  heart 
Chills  with  its  pang  of  deadly  woe ; 

Were  man's  whole  life  as  pure  as  thine, 
His  springs  of  joy  would  constant  flow. 


164  TO  MY  BRIEF   COMPANION. 

Thou  art  my  guest  within  these  shades, 
That  closely  bind  their  leafy  crown, 

Where  scarce  a  flickering  cloud  is  seen, 
Or  ray  of  sunshine  glancing  down,  — 

Or  scarce  a  sound  from  Nature  heard, 
Save  some  strange  call  from  woodland  far, 

Or  song  the  shrill  cicada  sings, 

Which  echoes  through  the  heated  air. 

Thou  roving  bird  on  airy  wing, 
My  brief  companion,  void  of  harm, 

Thou  hast  beguiled  a  lonely  hour, 
To  weariness  hath  lent  a  charm. 

And  I,  if  for  a  weary  hour, 

Might  some  lone  heart  of  grief  beguile, 
I  well  had  used  thy  lesson  taught, 

To  banish  sorrow  by  a  smile. 


THE   "  BOSTON   DAILY   TRAVELLER." 

TRAVELLER  !   Traveller !   where  do  you  go  ? 
You  're    a    nice    old    friend    all   the  world   doth 

know : 

Morning  and  evening  you  enter  our  door, 
Walk    in    the    State    House,    the    Market,    and 

store ; 

Ride  in  the  cars  and  sail  on  the  deep ; 
Over  the  mountain  you  playfully  leap ; 
Wander  the  forest  to  warble  your  lyre ; 
Drink  from  the  fountain  your  Muse  to  inspire. 

Traveller!   Traveller!   where  do  you  go, 
With  your  manly  form  and  your  locks  of  snow  ? 
Down  in  the  Tropics  to  gather  the  flowers, 
Filling  your  pockets  to  empty  in  ours; 
Up  at  the  Pole  with  your  habit  of  fur, 
Climbing  the  hummocks  your  pulses  to  stir ; 
Out  by  the  Island  a  hunting  for  pearls; 
Digging  for  diamonds  to  set  in  your  curls ! 

Traveller!    Traveller!   thus  do  you  go, 
With  best  of  the  Dailies  all  Boston  doth  know ; 
Not  ultra  or  dull  —  your  speeches  are  fine  : 
So  may  you  travel  and  never  decline. 


166 


THE  "BOSTON  DAILY   TRAVELLER: 


Long  may  you  live  on  this  notable  spot  — 
Freedom's  old  homestead  —  unstained  by  a  blot ; 
Green   laurels    we  '11    braid    to    place    on    your 

brow  — 
'T  will  become  your  white  locks  every  one  must 

allow. 

BOSTON,  Sept.  24, 1857. 


MY   NATIVE   LAND. 

FAIR  land  !  I  breathe  thy  fragrant  air, 
I  gaze  upon  thy  clear  blue  sky, 

Stretched  over  landscapes  brighter  far, 
Than  elsewhere  meet  the  human  eye. 

To  glance  abroad  with  eagle  eye, 

O'er  prairie  rich  and  mountain  grand, 

Where  is  the  soil  on  earth  can  vie 
With  this,  our  own  dear  native  land? 

By  mountain  streams  and  lucid  lakes, 
The  poet  drinks  the  inspiring  bowl ; 

From  forests  wild  his  harp  he  takes, 
And  pours  the  numbers  from  his  soul. 

Oh  grant  me  here  a  quiet  home, 
However  small  that  home  may  be, 

And  I,  a  prince,  the  world  might  roam, — 
I  am  a  man,  for  I  am  free  ! 

Dear  native  land  !  the  Muse  oft  sighs 
To  sing  thy  future  classic  lay, 

As  nations  fall  to  see  thee  rise, 

And  Freedom's  sunlight  round  thee  play. 

BOSTON,  July  15,  1858. 


THE   SOLITARY   HOUR. 


How  fast  ray  months  and  years  are  flying, 

How  rapidly  time  circles  by ; 
And  oft  a  something  noiseless  whispers, 

"  A  little  while  and  thou  must  die. 

"  Erelong  thou  'It  meet  that  fearful  moment, 
Which  sunders  life's  frail  thread  away, — 

Which  sends  thy  disembodied  spirit 
Immortal  to  eternity  ! " 

O,  when  I  cross  the  dark  deep  river, 
That  boundary  of  the  spirit  land, 

God  help  me,  lest  my  bark  should  founder  ! 
I  shall  be  safe,  held  by  His  hand. 

When  life's  last  accents  feebly  tremble, 
When  fainter  grows  each  mortal  sigh, 

O  loved  ones,  near  me  kindly  gather, 
Fond  faces  ye  may  hover  nigh, 

And  check  the  pangs  of  sad  emotion ; 

'T  is  meet  that  I  in  peace  should  rest ; 
It  may  be  mine  to  overcome, 

To  walk  in  white  amongst  the  blest ! 


THE  SOLITARY  HOUR.  169 

To  see  the  face  of  God  in  glory, 

To  rest  upon  His  gentle  breast, 
Away  from  all  earth's  storms  and  troubles, 

And  where  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

And  why  thus  dread  to  die  ?     Oh,  never ! 

If  God  has  promised  to  be  nigh, 
Why  should  we  wish  to  live  forever? 

To  go  to  Heaven  we  first  must  die. 


THE    SOLITARY   HOUR. 

ii. 
LAY  me  beneath  the  green,  green  turf, 

When  I  shall  sleep  my  final  sleep; 
The  bosom  of  my  mother  earth 

Let  all  my  ashes  safely  keep. 

And  there  let  bloom  the  sweetest  flowers, 
To  grace  my  lone  and  quiet  bed; 

Let  winter  snows  and  summer  showers 
Fall  gently  o'er  the  sleeping  dead. 

And  pile  no  stone  above  my  head. 
But  leave  the  mound  of  velvet  green ; 

Let  children  mingle  round  my  bed, 
And  in  their  mirth  be  often  seen. 

Nature  will  weep  her  dewy  tears, 
And  gentle  winds  will  often  sigh ; 

I  Nature  loved  with  heart  sincere, 
And  ever  felt  her  glory  nigh. 

She  taught  me  by  the  laughing  brook 
My  wild  and  wayward  harp  to  string ; 

And  read  me  from  her  wondrous  book 
Of  many  a  deep  mysterious  thing ; 


THE  SOLITARY  HOUR.  171 

And  tuned  my  unobtrusive  lyre, 

And  bade  me  touch  a  higher  string ; 

And  ever  from  my  sounding  wire 
My  hymnus  Deo  would  I  sing. 

Then  lay  me  'neath  the  green,  green  turf, 
When  I  shall  sleep  my  final  sleep ; 

The  bosom  of  my  mother  earth 
Let  all  my  ashes  safely  keep. 


A   MOTHER'S   LOVE. 

THERE  is  a  depth  within  the  heart, 
A  depth  no  mortal  e'er  can  sound, 

A  little  spot,  from  all  apart,  — 
'T  is  in  a  mother's  bosom  found. 

When  all  earth's  scenes  are  bleak  and  drear 
And  man  no  spot  of  rest  can  see  ; 

When  hope  is  dark,  and  life  a  tear, 
To  this  dear  spot  oh  let  him  flee. 

The  storms  may  beat,  the  thunders  rave, 
The  weary  heart  be  sad  with  care  ; 

He  can  the  storm  and  tempest  brave, 
If  but  a  mother's  love  is  there. 


AUTUMN. 

THE   cold   breath   of  Autumn   comes   chilling 

and  drear, 

Her  ruins  through  Nature  already  appear ; 
In  the  woodland  the  elm,  the  maple,  and  oak, 
At  once  plainly  tell  us  of  Autumn's  rude  stroke. 
The  bright  leaves   are   falling  in  showers  in  the 

vale, 

And,  in  some  sunny  spot,  secured  from  the  gale, 
The   last   of  the  flowers   have   spread   out  their 

forms, 
Preserved   from   the   frosts   and  from   Autumn's 

cold  storms. 

But  lone  midst  the  trees  which  the  summer's 

robe  wear, 
The   willow   stands   mourner   o'er   Nature's   cold 

bier; 
Her    boughs,    which    wooed    softly    the    summer 

wind's  breath, 

Now  loudly  are  wailing  the  knell  of  its  death. 
The   voice   which   woke   sweetly  the   earth   with 

its  lay, 
Enlivening  so  gayly  the  bright  summer  day, 


174  AUTUMN. 

Now  wakes  its  fair  song  to  the  soft  breathing  air 
Of  some  spicy  island  or  region  afar. 
The  dove,  with  its  song  at  the  twilight  of  dawn, 
The   thrush,  and   the   lark,  from   our  skies  have 

withdrawn  ; 

But  the  lonely  wood-robin  at  noonday  is  seen, 
In    the    hollow   of  leaves    on    the   moss-covered 

green  ; 

The  quail  in  her  covert  you  meet  with  surprise, 
And,  startled,  away  to  the  thicket  she  flies ; 
On  the  thistle  the  yellow-bird  seeks  her  repast, 
But  her  song  of  the  summer  no  longer  doth  last ; 
The  squirrel   so   sprightly,  from   rock   and  from 

tree, 

In  wildwood  unbounded  sports  harmless  and  free ; 
The  sound  of  his  revels  you  often  may  hear 
In  merriment  wild  through  the  still  sunny  air; 
The  insects  that  moaned  o'er  their  early  decay, 
In  the  ruins  of  death  now  moulder  away ; 
The  rill  in  its  loneliness  circles  apast, 
Where  the  pebbles   and   moss   are   all  that  now 

last: 
The  greens   and   the   cresses  which   late   graced 

its  bank, 

And  flourished  awhile  and  its  nourishment  drank, 
With   the   summer's   warm   sun   have   fled   from 

the  place, 
And  Autumn's  sad  ruins  are  all  we  can  trace. 

So  Autumn  recedes  as  all  others  before, 
Which  on  Time's  sacred  page  are  all  numbered 
o'er. 


AUTUMN.  175 

O  Autumn,  so  pensive,  yet  beautiful  too, 

How  rich  are  thy  lessons,  thy  morals  how  true ! 

O  emblem  of  mortals  !   our  earthly  decay 

In  Autumn  we  read  as  it  passes  away ; 

Yes,  on  the  fair  beings  once  beauty  and  grace, 

The  mark  of  diseases  how  often  we  trace  ! 

Aye,   Age   with    gray  hairs    and   deep   furrowed 

cheeks, 

Mortality's  language  in  eloquence  speaks, — 
His  form  a  mere  wreck,  for  a  spirit  to  dwell,  — 
The  grave's  ripened  victim  it  plainly  doth  tell ; 
And  the  leaves  and  the  flowers  of  Autumn  may 

fade, 

And  on  Death's  icy  bier  together  be  laid. 
The    friends,    too,    that    gladden    through    life's 

checkered  way, 

Like  the  ruins  of  Autumn  will  moulder  away ; 
But  the  spirit  of  man,  immortal,  divine, 
The  essence  of  God  in  His  noblest  design, 
Unchanging  and  fadeless,  unweakened  by  time, 
Will  claim  an  existence  eternal,  sublime! 


TWILIGHT. 

SWEET  is  the  hour  when  twilight's  shade 

Hangs  o'er  the  dusky  brow  of  night,  — 
When  fairy  forms  dance  o'er  the  glade, 

Beneath  the  moonbeams'  pleasant  light : 
That  hour  is  sacred  to  the  Muse, 

Who  softly  seeks  her  sylvan  bowers ; 
Her  tranquil  shades  sweet  peace  diffuse 

Into  the  soul  in  twilight  hours. 


THE   VIOLET. 

THERE  bloomed  within  a  lonely  delL 

A  small,  but  sweet,  wild  flower; 
The  rains  of  heaven  upon  it  fell, 
The  fairies  loved  with  it  to  dwell, 
And  dews  at  evening  hour. 

It  grew  without  a  foster  hand, 

Without  a  human  care  ; 
None  watched  to  see  the  bud  expand, 
But  breeze  of  heaven  its  bosom  fanned, 

And  incense  fill'd  the  air. 

This  unobtrusive  flower  we  love, 

Although  an  humble  thing; 
The  pride  of  glen  and  forest  grove, 
It  scents  our  pathway  where  we  rover 

And  heavenward  spreads  its  wing. 

Clothed  in  the  heaven's  etherial  bluer 

In  Nature's  garden  grows 
This  humble  flower,  that  drinks  the  dew, 
And  ne'er  has  changed  its  heavenly  hue, 

Since  Sol  on  Eden  rose. 
12 


178  THE   VIOLET. 

Like  Truth  within  the  human  mind, 

That  flower  almost  unknown  ; 
It  changes  not,  but  blooms  enshrined 
Where  treacherous  arts  no  entrance  find, 
Nursed  at  a  higher  throne. 


A   MORNING   WALK   INTO   THE 
COUNTRY. 

MAIDEN,  throw  back  that  veil  of  thine, 
And  breathe  this  pure  and  bracing  air 

Go,  doff  thy  robe  of  silk  so  fine, 

Come,  gather  buds  to  deck  thy  hair. 

For  never  grew  a  fairer  flower, 
Or  ever  bloomed  a  sweeter  rose, 

Since  Eve  was  queen  in  Eden's  bower, 
Than  that  thy  face  and  form  disclose. 

The  morn  is  glittering  on  the  sea, 
The  sky  is  smiling  on  the  earth, 

The  diamond  dews  are  on  the  lea. 
And  every  voice  is  full  of  mirth. 

Through  Nature's  grand  old  forest  hall, 
The  wild  bird  trills  its  melting  lay  ; 

'Neath  leafy  dome  and  column  tall, 
How  grandly  Nature's  organs  play. 

E'en  here,  beneath  each  ancient  tree, 
Where  squirrel  chirps  and  robin  sings, 

Oh  turn  aside  thine  eyes  and  see 
How  beautiful  what  Nature  brings. 


180    A  MORNING    WALK  INTO   THE  COUNTRY. 

And  deem  it  not  amiss  for  thee 
In  homely  garb  to  climb  the  hill, 

To  greet  the  squirrel  from  the  tree, 
Or  gather  flowers  thy  lap  to  fill. 

Along  the  walk,  with  rustling  trail, 
Like  princess  clad  for  royal  show, 

Or  fairy  in  some  Orient  tale, 
With  dainty  step  I  see  thee  go. 

Thou  hear'st  me  not  —  thou  wilt  not  hear, 
That  Nature  might  her  secret  tell ! 

Perchance  she  'd  whisper  in  thine  ear 
How  thou  couldst  all  the  flowers  excel. 

Thou  'rt  gone  !   and  I,  to  moralize 
On  human  life,  am  left  alone  ; 

How  happier  far  the  bird  that  flies, 

Than  she  who  sits  on  Fashion's  throne  ! 


'TWAS   A   DREADFUL    COLD   NIGHT. 

'T  WAS  a  dreadful  cold  night, 

For  it  froze  very  tight 
The  fountains,  the  earth,  and  the  rivers  ; 

If  from  under  the  clothes 

You  poked  out  your  nose, 
It  sent  you  at  once  into  shivers. 

Old  Boreas  roared  out 

With  a  horrible  shout, 
Which  shook  all  the  floor  and  the  ceiling, 

Like  an  engine  at  play, 

Puffing  fiercely  away, 
Till  Nature  went  trembling  and  reeling. 

Ah,  its  cold  frosty  breath 

Brought  sorrow  and  death 
To  the  poor  little  orphan  in  need, 

And  the  tear  that  he  wept 

To  an  icicle  crept,  — 
Oh  't  was  cold  for  the  orphan  indeed ! 


NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 

TO    MY    LITTLE    DAUGHTER    MARIE. 

THE  sun  has  sunk  from  yonder  sky, 
And  bland  the  breeze  is  floating  by ; 
Old  Winter  hides  his  angry  frown, 
And  softly  smiles  through  moonlight  down, 
As  if  he  fain  a  world  would  bless 
With  naught  but  peace  and  happiness. 
Then  joy  to  thee,  my  little  maid, 
A  New  Year  comes  in  smiles  arrayed ! 

From  this  full  heart  is  felt  for  thee, 
The  wish  that  thou  mayst  happy  be 
Throughout  each  long  and  changing  day 
That  mark  the  New  Year's  annual  way ; 
And  may  thy  voice,  so  sweet  and  clear, 
Be  heard  by  us  for  many  a  year, 
Through  wintry  days  and  summer  hours, 
When  smiles  the  earth  and  blooms  the  flowers. 

What  kind  affections  round  thee  cling, 
Our  darling  one,  our  bird  of  spring, 
The  flower  in  wintry  skies  we  rear, 
And  love  through  all  the  changing  year. 


NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS. 

I  'd  press  my  kisses  on  thy  cheek, 
And  fain  my  love  for  thee  would  speak ; 
Thy  many  kind  and  gentle  ways 
I  '11  think  of  to  my  latest  days ! 

God  grant  to  thee,  my  little  dear, 
Many  a  long  and  glad  New  Year. 


183 


THE   CLOUD   SHIP. 

THE  sun  has  sunk  beneath  the  hills, 

That  on  Virginia's  western  sky 
Lie  stretched  in  one  continuous  line, 

And  bound  the  horizon  to  the  eye. 

The  heavens  are  calm,  the  storm  has  passed, 
Transparent  seems  the  sky  of  blue ; 

And  lo !   as  on  a  sea  of  glass, 

A  bright  cloud  sails  before  the  view. 

A  splendid  ship,  with  hull  and  mast, — 

A  perfect  model  to  behold, — 
With  sails  full  set,  and  flag  aloft, 

In  crimson  tipped,  and  lined  with  gold. 

Mysterious  .cloud !   sailing  serene 

On  yonder  golden  sunset  sea, 
Oh  tell  us  where  thy  track  hath  been, 

And  what  thy  errand  here  can  be ! 

Tell  of  those  fair  immortal  isles, 

That  flowery  land  unseen,  afar, 
Where  day  in  one  long  sunset  smiles, 

Away  beneath  the  evening  star. 


THE   CLOUD  SHIP. 

It  calms  the  heart  to  look  on  thee,  — 
To  think  there  is  some  region  blest, 

Where  life  from  weariness  is  free, 

And  where  the  longing  soul  may  rest. 


185 


MAY. 

MINNIE,  dearest,  bring  my  lute, 
Gladness  dwelleth  everywhere  ; 

Why  should  we  be  sad  or  mute? 
Joy  will  come  and  banish  care. 

Look  thou  out  upon  the  earth, 
Minnie,  dearest,  only  look! 

May  is  laughing,  full  of  mirth,  — 
Laughing  by  the  hill  and  brook. 

See  her  richly  waving  locks, 

Full  of  beauty  —  see  them  now  ! 

See  her  midst  the  lambkin  flocks, 
With  a  chaplet  on  her  brow ! 

Full  of  splendor,  full  of  love, 
Full  of  life,  and  joy,  and  bliss, 

Gathering  sunshine  from  above, 
To  illume  the  gloom  of  this. 

Paint  her,  Minnie,  e'en  as  now, 
Scattering  from  her  urn  the  dew; 

With  a  garland  on  her  brow, 
Cheering  Nature's  bleakest  view. 


MAY. 


187 


Let  us  look,  when  life  is  drear, 
Where  the  skies  are  ever  fair, 

Gathering  sunshine  earth  to  cheer, 
Till  we  bury  every  care. 


WINTER   SKETCHES. 

THE  pictures  of  sorrow  all  cheerless  and  cold,  — 
The  mother,  in  grief,  on  her  pallet  of  straw  ; 

The  poor  little  ones,  out  of  poverty's  fold, 

Whose  tatters  and  tears  all  their  story  unfold ; 

The  home  of  the  rich,  with  its  coffers  of  gold,  — 
Are  sketches  that  Winter  doth  solemnly  draw, 
And  all  may  behold. 

Dread  forms  of  the  wretched,  woe-stricken   ap- 
pear, 

With  skeleton  figure  and  countenance  pale ; 
The  small  narrow  mansion,  the  coffin  and  bier, 
Where    the   wants   of  the    body   no   mortal   will 

fear,  — 
Where    the   bitings    of  scorn    never    call    up   a 

tear,  — 

The  rich  the  poor  beggar  will  never  assail, 
Or  even  desire. 

The  tempests  of  life  will  soon  all  blow  over ; 

A  few  circling  suns  to  the  youngest  may  come  ; 
The  best  studied  joys  that  wealth  can  discover, 
Like  melodies  gay  around  us  that  hover, 


WINTER  SKETCHES.  189 

The  song  of  the  bird,  or  the  lute  of  the  lover, 
Or  breezes  the  meadows  of  summer  that  roam, 
Are  rapidly  over. 

The  scorner  and  scorned  will  lie  down  together ; 

The  ages  to  come  on  their  ashes  will  tread ; 
No  chemical  art  can  the  particles  sever, 
The  dust  of  the  one  from  the  dust  of  the  other,  — 
The  pride  of  all  caste  is  banished  forever,  — 

Nor  birth  of  distinction  remains  for  the  dead, 
The  foe,  or  the  lover. 

A  cup  of  cold  water  in  kindness  bestowed, 

The  poor  wretch  to  relieve,  unpitied  in  woe, 
Has  lightened  the  burden  of  misery's  load, 
And  courage  has  given  to  travel  life's  road, 
Till  through  its  dark  windings  a  better  abode, 
Where  thornless  the  blossoms  eternally  blow, 
And  crown  are  bestowed. 


THE   BRIGHT   GLOWING   FIRE. 

OH  thanks  to  the  fire,  to  the  bright  glowing  fire, 
The  bliss  of  the  heart  on  a  cold  winter's  day ; 
Here  pleasures  are  centred  that  never  will  tire  ; 
'T  is  here  we  can  gratify  every  desire,  — 
'T  is  here  that  the  poet  tunes  sweetest  his  lyre, 
Nor    sighs    that    the    summer    has    wandered 
away, 

By  the  bright  glowing  fire. 

At  zero  the  mercury  yesternight  stood ; 

This  morning  it  ranges,  say,  twenty  below  ; 
Around  the  warm  fire  half  frozen  we  brood, 
And,  if  we  can  help  it,  will  move  not  a  rood, 
But  thrust  on  the  fuel,  the  coal,  and  the  wood, 
And  shudder  to  hear  the  wild   northern  wind 
blow, 

By  the  bright  glowing  fire. 

Let  those  who  delight  in  the  jingle  of  bells 
Enjoy  sleigh-riding  as  much  as  they  rnay  ; 
The  wail  of  the  wind,  as  it  mournfully  swells, 
And  sweeps  through  the  forest,  and  valleys,  and 

dells, 
A  tale  of  distress  to  humanity  tells : 

Who  hears  this  may  never  a  moment  delay, 
By  the  bright  glowing  fire. 


THE  DYING   YEAR 

TO    MY    LITTLE    DAUGHTER    SUSIE. 

MY  darling  child,  before  I  go, 
It  is  my  wish  that  you  should  know, 
By  such  a  brief  and  simple  way, 
What  't  is  I  have  to  you  to  say, 
For  soon  you  '11  see  my  face  no  more ; 
My  life,  so  brief,  is  almost, o'er: 
When  morning  lights  again  the  sky, 
I  shall  be  hid  from  mortal  eye ; 
But  will  you  not,  my  little  dear, 
Remember  me,  —  the  dying  year  ? 

What  pleasures  /  have  oft  bestowed, 
As  on  you  travelled  childhood's  road ! 
I  know  that  heart  of  yours  will  beat 
With  rapture,  when  you  oft  repeat 
The  hours  that  circled  swift  away 
Through  many  a  long  and  happy  day, 
When  /  spread  flowers  beneath  your  feet, 
And  fain  would  had  your  joy  complete. 

From  all  on  earth  soon  /  must  go, 
My  hours  are  numbered  here  below  ; 
But  there  are  beings  of  my  care 
Who  blessings  well  deserve  to  share, — 


192  THE  DYING   YEAE. 

Sweet  beings  of  my  tender  love, 
Whom  angels  smile  on  from  above, — 
Those  happy  buds  of  changing  earth, 
That  bless  it  with  their  joy  and  mirth : 
I  leave  them  with  a  mournful  sigh, 
In  wailing  winds  that  echo  by. 

Beloved  child!  when  night's  repose 
Your  dark-blue  eyes  again  unclose, 
You  will  receive  this  parting  line, 
Together  with  some  gifts  of  mine. 
And  now  these  feeble  limbs  so  old 
Are  tott'ring,  and  my  breath  is  cold ; 
Then  let  me  bless  you,  little  maid, 
And  wish  you  joys  that  ne'er  will  fade, - 
That  all  the  brotherhood,  like  me, 
To  you,  my  dear,  most  kind  may  be  ; 
And  if  old  age  adorn  your  brow, 
May  you  be  innocent  as  now. 
Pray  nurture  in  your  gentle  breast 
Those  virtues  which  adorn  you  best ; 
Then  earth  will  smile  with  joy  for  you, 
And  life  grow  bright  on  mem'ry's  view. 

My  breath  is  trembling,  dim  my  eye, 
Soon  I  shall  yield  my  dying  sigh ; 
But,  when  you  hear  the  happy  lay 
That  tells  that  I  have  passed  away, 
Oh  let  affection  for  me  still 
Sometimes  your  little  bosom  fill ! 
These  parting  words  remember  well, 
And  take  from  me  this  last  farewell  ! 


THE     NEW    YEAR 

TO    MY    LITTLE    SON. 

GOOD  morning,  my  sweet  little  boy ! 

The  New  Year  is  speaking  to  you ; 
Good  morning,  —  most  gladly  we  meet, 

Although  our  acquaintance  is  new. 

I  've  pleasures,  and  freely  I  give  ; 

My  sunshine  and  earth  are  for  you  ; 
Be  happy,  be  good  while  you  live, 

And  remember  the  year  that  is  new. 

Be  gentle  and  lovely,  my  boy; 

The  dear  little  dove  by  your  side, 
While  you  live,  may  your  pastimes  enjoy, 

And  nothing  your  pleasures  divide. 

I  think  in  thy  open  blue  eye 
Thy  feelings  of  goodness  I  scan, 

Through  hopes  of  bright  future  can  see 
In  manhood  the  glory  of  man. 

You  're  welcome  to  pleasures,  dear  boy,  — 
My  purest  and  sweetest  for  you  ; 

I  offer  no  bauble  or  toy, 

But  pleasures  both  lasting  and  true. 
13 


THE   AVALANCHE. 

LOOK  !  there  it  hangs  !  a  fearful  thing ! 

Down  from  its  dizzy  height  to  fall ! 
I  breathless  gaze ;   my  blood  I  feel 

Curdling  within  my  veins,  and  all 
My  senses  reeling.     Ha !  I  swing 

In  mid  air  now,  —  but,  gazing  still, 
I  see  it  slide  an  atom's  space, — 

Now,  now,  it  rushes  from  its  fearful  place 
On  high,  and,  thundering  with  a  crashing  roar, 

It  falls,  —  and  lo !  the  avalanche  is  o'er. 


HEPATICA-TRILOBA. 

BRIGHT   flowers !    the   first   in    early   spring-time 
blowing, 

Thy  starry  forms  are  out  in  sheltered  nook : 
Fearless  of  cold,  beside  the  pathway  growing, 

Gay  living  pictures  of  great  Nature's  book ! 

Thy  simple  stalk,  alone,  behold  ascending 

From  heart-shaped   leaves   around   its   slender 

base, 

That  cluster  close,  thy  life  from  foes  defending. 
From   roughened    touch,    or    winds'    too    rude 
embrace. 

No  floral  cup,  or  bell,  save  thine,  doth  greet  us : 
The  snow-drop  lingers  in  its  bulbous  cell ; 

No  cowslip  by  the  leaping  wave  doth  meet  us  ; 
Nor  mantling  verdure  deck  the  sunny  dell. 

Fair  child  of  Nature  !    first,  in  thine  appearing, 
What  joyous  hopes  to  mind  thy  flow'rets  bring. 

Of  shady  groves,  of  vales,  and  meadows  cheering. 
And  all  the  bliss  of  laughing,  rosy  Spring. 


196  HEPATICA-TR1LOBA. 

Herald  of  beauty !   though  the  breezes  soften 
That  cradled  thy  fair  form  in  drift  of  snow, 

Still  vainly  shall  we  look  and  linger  often 

For  lovelier  flowers,  when  kinder  breezes  blow. 

Emblem  of  everlasting  mind  progressive, 
Upspringing  from  an  apathy  profound, 

Which  sund'ring  every  link  of  chains  oppressive, 
Stands  up,  though  adverse  powers  its  fate  sur- 
round. 


THE   YOUNG   BRIDE. 

'T  is  Autumn's  midnight,  blue  and  clear, 

Not  e'en  a  cloud  floats  through  the  sky  ; 
Westward  the  stars  their  courses  steer, 
And,  ere  the  morn,  will  disappear 
From  the  pale  watcher's  weary  eye. 

Never  again  those  orbs  shall  shine 

On  her  from  out  their  heaven  of  blue ; 
Never  will  light  that  broken  shrine 
Where  Love's  fresh  garlands  once  did  twine, 
Watered  by  young  Affection's  dew. 

Never  again  her  youthful  eye 

Will  close  on  earth  in  mortal  sleep  ; 
Her  wedded  love  had  spanned  the  sky, 
When  Hymen's  song  went  thrilling  by, 
While  now  she  sits  in  prayer  to  weep  — 

Alone,  till  morn,  while  stars  of  night 
Alone  upon  her  seemed  to  shine  ; 

She  's  watched  her  love  through  midnight's 
flight, 

Like  weary  bird  that  cannot  light, 
Whose  home  is  in  a  foreign  clime. 


198  THE   YOUNG  BRIDE. 

Back  oft  her  thoughts  to  childhood  rove, 
The  blissful  morn  of  youthful  years, 

When  laughing  brook  and  vocal  grove, 

Sweet  voices  of  parental  love, 

Once  more  are  echoed  in  her  ears. 

Still  gently  breathes  the  air  of  night ; 

A  thousand  flow'rets  drink  the  dew ; 
The  stars  still  shine  in  splendor  bright, 
And  blend  their  rays  with   Cynthia's  light, 

But  soon  to  fade  upon  her  view. 

Morn  dawned  again  with  balmy  air  ; 

The  bridegroom  came,  —  she  met  his  gaze 
And  Death  her  pulses  paused  :   despair 
Too  deep,  too  keen,  her  heart  to  bear, 

Set  free  her  soul,  Heaven's  crown  to  wear. 


WHAT  HAST   THOU   DONE? 

WHAT  hast  thou  done  in  this  day  of  salvation, 
When  rivers  of  mercy  flow  down  like  a  flood, 

To  save  thy  poor  soul  from  dread  condemnation, 
Revealed  to  thyself  in  the  statutes  of  God  ? 

Leave  all  thy  idols,  thy  toiling  for  treasures, 
The  dross  which  but  dazzles  thy  spirit  to  cheat ; 

Draw  from  above  all  thy  riches  and  pleasures, 
For  they  are  eternal,  unchanging,  complete. 

Fly  to  the  Saviour,  nor  hazard  delaying,  — 
Oh  go,  with  thy  heart  only  trusting  in  Him ! 

Bow  thy  proud  spirit,  believing,  obeying, 
Ere  hope  of  redemption  forever  grows  dim. 

Accents  of  kindness  in  anguish  imploring, 

All  full  of  the  love  which  He  bore  on  the  tree ; 

Are  still,  oh  still,  with  sweet  mercy  o'erflowing, 
And  offered,  yes  offered,  poor  sinner  to  thee! 

Oh    what   hast    thou    done    in    this    day   of  thy 

Saviour  ! 

If  thou    wouldst    escape    from    the    terrors  of 
woe, 


200 


WHAT  HAST  THOU  DONE? 


Wake,  wake  from  the  slumbers  around  tbee  that 

gather, 

Or   redemption    thou   never,   no,  never   mayst 
know. 

May  15, 1858. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ISAAC  LEWIS,  D.  D. 

CEASED  in  death  his  pulse  its  beating, 
He  has  gone  to  endless  rest; 

Slow  he  passed,  like  sunset  sinking 
In  the  calm  and  golden  west. 

On  the  battlement  of  Zion, 

He,  commissioned  from  on  high, 

To  the  wretched,  deep  in  ruin, 
Preached  eternal  justice  nigh. 

From  Jehovah  came  his  mission, 
Faithfully  he  preached  His  law ; 

Wisely  taught  the  heavenly  lesson, 
That  the  soul  its  truth  might  draw. 

Deep  and  forcible  his  mandate, 

Clothed  in  intellectual  might, 
Armed  with  mercy,  truth,  and  justice, 

From  the  throne  of  life  and  light. 

Those  pure  precepts  which  he  taught  you, 
Parents  to  your  children  give,  — 

"  Yours  he  sought  not,  when  he  sought  you,"  l 
When  he  bade  you  turn  and  live. 

1  From  his  Farewell  Address. 


202      ON   THE  DEATH  OF  ISAAC  LEWIS,  D.  D. 

Oft  he  begged  for  you  a  blessing, 
Infant  children  of  his  flock, 

When  he  prayed,  and  poured  refreshing 
Water  from  the  Eternal  Rock. 

Father,  ne'er  thy  form  shall  meet  us, 
With  its  mantling  locks  of  snow  ; 

Ne'er  thy  presence  more  shall  greet  us, 
While  assembled  here  below. 

Tolls  the  bell  its  mournful  pealing, 
Low  in  earth  the  good  is  laid, 

And  with  solemn  rites  they  're  sealing 
The  last  act  by  mortals  paid. 


HYMN   OF   HEAVEN. 

THERE  's    a    beautiful    world    in    bright   regions 

away, 

For  man  when  his  soul  hath  forsaken  its  clay, 
Where  lost  are  earth's  ills  on  its  wild  checkered 

way, 
Like   dreams    of  the    night    in    the  splendor  of 

day. 

'T  is  a  beautiful  world  —  the  Saviour  is  there! 
He  taught  us  to  love  Him,  and  troubles  to  bear ; 
He  came  to   our   earth,  where    He   suffered  and 

died, 
That  man  in  that  world  might  forever  abide. 

There  harps  by  the  hand  of  a  seraph  are  strung, 
Redemption  the  song  that  forever  is  sung ; 
And  thrills  all  the  soul  as  in  sweetness  it  roves, 
Through  its  evergreen  fields  and  amaranth  groves. 

I  would  go,  —  I  'd   take   all   the   friends   that  I 

love,  — 

I  'd  take  every  soul  to  those  regions  above ; 
By  rivers  of  pleasure  we  'd  sit  ourselves  down, 
And  drink  of  enjoyment  that  knows  not  a  frown. 


204 


HYMN   OF  HEAVEN. 


[mmortal  to  live !  aye,  never  to  die ! 
With  great  and  with  good  ones  forever  on  high ! 
To  learn  that  high  wisdom  to  us  here  denied, 
And  to   live  with    the    Saviour  who  for   us   has 
died. 


SABBATH   MORNING   HYMN. 

HARK!   what  holy  peals  are  breaking 

On  the  morn's  unruffled  air ! 
Hark  !   what  holy  hymns  are  waking 

From  the  aisles  of  praise  and  prayer. 

Multitudes  this  morn  assemble, 

Where  is  preached  the  Gospel's  word,— 
Truths  that  make  the  conscience  tremble, 

Truths  from  out  the  Book  of  God. 

Listen,  mortals!   Why  should  pleasures 
Such  as  earth's  ensnare  the  soul? 

Heaven  has  joys,  —  yes,  richest  treasures,  — 
Far  beyond  this  world's  control. 

Yes,  the  truth  is  preached  to  warn  thee, 

Sinful  man  was  born  to  die ; 
Thoughtless  youth,  and  age  grown  hoary, 

Think  upon  eternity ! 

Mark  how  swiftly  time  is  flying ; 

Earthly  visions  soon  must  cease ; 
Friend  and  foe  alike  are  dying,  — 

Nought  from  death  can  give  release. 


206 


SABBATH  MORNING  HYMN. 


Learn  the  Bible's  precious  warning  •„ 
Learn  the  wisdom  of  the  blest: 

Then,  on  Resurrection's  morning, 
Heaven  will  give  eternal  rest. 


HYMN. 

OH  would  I  could  forever  sing 

Thy  strains,  redeeming  love ! 
They  should  unceasing  round  me  ring, 

Songs  of  the  blest  above ; 
For  angels  breathe  this  holy  song 

Around  the  throne  on  high  ; 
'T  will  fill  with  joy  that  mighty  throng 

Through  all  eternity. 

Redeeming  love !   I  'd  sing  of  thee 

Untiring  evermore  ; 
And  this  my  theme  should  ever  be, 

The  theme  I  should  adore ; 
Redeeming  love  the  Saviour  bought, 

To  save  our  fallen  race; 
Redeeming  love  !   O  Thou  hast  sought, 

And  saved  us  by  Thy  grace. 

The  world  shall  learn  this  holy  theme, 

The  desert  breathe  the  strain, 
The  wilderness  with  beauty  bloom, 

Millenial  glory  reign ! 
Oh  would  that  all  could  swell  its  strains 

From  India  to  the  pole, — 
Redeeming  love  !  Immanuel  reigns  ! 

Should  dwell  in  every  soul. 


HYMN. 

THINE  earthly  temples,  Lord,  we  seek, 
And  fain  would  leave  our  cares  behind 

Oh  help  us,  for  our  strength  is  weak, 
And  let  our  souls  instruction  find. 

We  thank  Thee  for  this  blessed  day, 
When  flesh  and  spirit  find  repose ; 

Oh  give  us  hearts  to  love  Thy  way, 
The  only  path  that  wisdom  shows. 

Soon  will  our  frail  and  languid  frame 
Cease  in  Thy  courts  below  to  wait; 

Soon  must  the  soul,  from  God  that  came, 
At  His  tribunal  meet  its  fate. 

Would  that  the  vail  this  truth  that  hides, 
Might  from  the  mind  be  rent  away, 

And  we  might  feel  that  God  presides, 
And  learn  His  precepts  to  obey. 

To  Him  our  hearts  oh  let  us  give  ! 

This  great  resolve  most  freely  make : 
To  serve  Him  truly  while  we  live, 

And  ne'er  the  promise  dare  to  break. 


IN    THE    DEEP   WATERS    WHEN   THOU 
GOEST. 

IN  the  deep  waters  when  thou  goest, 
A  friend,  O  sinner,  thou  wilt  need; 

Time  from  thee  will  roll  back  forever, 
And  who,  oh  who,  thy  steps  will  lead? 

Look  now  to  Him  who  fain  would  guide  you, 
Who,  to  His  fold,  ere  set  of  day, 

Calls  you,  with  voice  so  sweet  and  tender, 
Entreating  you  without  delay. 

Stop  now,  O  sinner,  pause  and  listen  ! 

It  comes  from  God's  pure  throne  of  light ; 
Oh  turn  thine  ear  to  hear  its  accents,  — 

Turn  thou,  ere  comes  Death's  fearful  night. 


14 


I  WILL  CALL  UPON  THE  LORD.1 

Mr   PRAYER   IS    TO    THEE,    O    LORD  ! Psalm. 

I  WILL  call  upon  Thee 

When  the  morning  is  light ; 
I  will  call  upon  Thee 

In  the  darkness  of  night; 
I  will  call  upon  Thee 

Amid  sorrow  and  care; 
I  will  call  upon  Thee 

In  the  spirit  of  prayer. 

I  will  speak  unto  Thee 

When  I  'm  weary  and  lone ; 
I  will  speak  unto  Thee 

Till  it  reaches  Thy  throne; 
I  will  speak  unto  Thee 

When  burdened  my  heart; 
I  will  speak  unto  Thee 

Till  the  burden  depart. 

I  will  look  unto  Thee, 

Look  in  every  distress  ; 
I  will  look  unto  Thee 

And  my  sins  will  confess ; 

1  1  Samuel  xii.  17. 


/   WILL   CALL   UPON   THE  LORD.          211 

I  will  look  unto  Thee 

When  all  covered  with  gloom ; 
I  will  look  unto  Thee 

Till  I  enter  the  tomb. 

I  will  pray  unto  Thee, — 

Prayer  is  all  of  my  life ; 
I  will  pray  unto  Thee,  — 

'T  is  my  weapon  in  strife  ; 
I  will  pray  unto  Thee 

With  my  uttermost  breath  ; 
I  will  pray  unto  Thee 

Till  I  slumber  in  death. 

I  will  sing  of  Thy  love, 

My  Redeemer,  my  God; 
I  will  sing  of  Thy  love 

Till  I  reach  Thine  abode  ; 
I  will  sing  of  Thy  love 

When  Thy  face  I  shall  see  ; 
Then  will  sing  of  Thy  love  — 

Oh,  forever,  to  me ! 


TO   MY   DAUGHTER   SUSIE. 

FAIR  lily  of  my  little  flock, 

My  jewel,  in  my  heart  enshrined, 

How  beautiful  each  clustering  lock 
Around  thy  marble  brow  is  twined. 

Upon  thy  face,  enthroned  serene, 
Is  mildness  like  the  summer  night, 

When  moonbeams  rest  o'er  all  the  scene, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscures  the  sight. 

Oh  wear  upon  thy  gentle  breast 
The  signet  of  a  Saviour's  love ; 

Then  beauty,  brighter  than  the  rest, 
Shall  shed  its  radiance  from  above. 

Then,  in  the  gardens  of  the  blest, 
Where  blossoms  never  drop  and  fade, 

New  vigor  shall  thy  form  invest, 
And  earth  will  never  cast  a  shade. 


TWILIGHT   MUSING. 

THE  sun  in  western  sky  serenely  glows, 
And  crimson  light  upon  the  ocean  throws ; 
While  gently  o'er  its  undulating  breast 
The  zephyr  sighs  and  calmly  sinks  to  rest; 
Nought  else  is  heard  but  softly-mingled  song. 
In  echo  floating  through  the  vales  along, 
And    Spring's   slow   twilight    thoughtful   stealing 

near, 
Invokes  the  spell  by  fancy  held  so  dear. 

See,  on  the  high  and  dusky  vault  of  blue, 
The  crimson  tints  of  sunset  cast  their  hue, 
And  far  on  high  a  star  or  two  are  set, 
Like  diamonds  in  its  azure  coronet. 
The  breeze  of  eve  springs  up,  and  on  its  wings 
Is  borne  the  song  the  night-bird  sweetly  sings  ; 
The  mingled  sounds  of  forest,  vale,  and  rill. 
Monotonous  and  sweet  the  valleys  fill ; 
Released    from    toil    the    ploughman    hies    him 

home, 

Singing  along  his  merry  rustic  song; 
And  Heaven  itself,  while  Nature  quiet  sleeps, 
O'er  earth  and  seas  her  holy  vigil  keeps. 


214  TWILIGHT  MUSING. 

0  fancy,  where  art  thou?     E'en  roaming  far 
In  heaven's  own  canopy  from  star  to  star. 
Ye  spirits  pure,  from  yonder  realms  of  light, 
Tracing  your  pathway  'mong  the  orbs  of  night, 
Tell  —  from  the  precincts  of  some  distant  star, 
And  from  those  twinkling  orbs  still  further  far  — 
The  secret  truths  in  mystery  that  lie, 
From  Nature's  deep  unsearched  philosophy  ; 
And  let  me  ask,  amidst  this  reverie, 
What  are  their  beings  —  such,  e'en  such  as  we  ? 
But  stay,  thou  wayward  thought,  't  is  unrevealed : 
Ask  not  the  secret  —  God  hath  it  concealed. 


THE   INDIAN   BASKET. 

ACCEPT  from  me  this  little  basket, 

By  an  Indian  maiden  made, 
From  the  forests  round  the  Casco, 

Where  the  Indian  maiden  strayed. 

Ne'er  in  princely  halls  of  splendor 
Queenly  grace  like  hers  you  '11  find, 

Ne'er  such  eyes  with  beauty  tender, 
Ne'er  a  voice  like  hers  refined. 

See  the  Indian  fainting,  fading, 
Weary  in  the  white  man's  chase, 

Leaving  forests  where  he  braided 
Glorious  memories  of  his  race. 

Take,  dear  friend,  the  little  basket, 
'T  was  by  Indian  maiden  made ; 

Would  it  were  some  precious  casket 
With  the  rarest  gems  inlaid  ; 

Would  it  were  some  splendid  treasure, 
Which  my  warmth  of  heart  might  tell, 

That  might  give  you  lasting  pleasure, 
When  on  me  you  chanced  to  dwell. 


SPAIN. 

AGES  their  rounds  have  o'er  Hispania  rolled, 
And  melted  in  the  dim  and  mighty  past, 

Since  her  high  hand  was  raised  in  frenzy  bold 
The  bud  of  Christian  liberty  to  blast. 

Heaven's  genial  suns  have  blest  her  fertile  soil, 
Her  hills  and  vales  in  beauty  glad  the  eye; 

Blessings  are  hers  that  urge  not  human  toil, 
But  yield  the  wants  of  man  a  full  supply. 

Blest  in  her  clime  and  soil,  by  Nature  blest, 
Yet  persecution  stains  her  glory  still ; 

Unholy  passions  in  the  papal  breast 
Wrought  out  her  destiny  of  lasting  ill. 

Oppression  with  a  tyrant  reign  began, 
^  Crushed  freedom  which  Almighty  wisdom  gave, 

Till  darker  Inquisition  chained  the  man, 

And    hushed    his    soul    in    midnight    like   the 
grave. 

Hist'ry  its  tragic  tale  will  never  tell, 
Its  awful  secrets  none  shall  full  relate, 


SPAIN.  217 

When  fury  like  the  fiercest  vengeance  fell, 
And   burned    in    human    breast   with   envious 
hate. 

Base  institution,  by  a  despot  framed, 

To  heaven-born   rights   of  man   the    deadliest 
foe  — 

Earth  for  its  cruelties  e'en  wept  ashamed, 
And  startled  at  its  pangs  of  human  woe. 

Then  fled   the   Moor   the    home   that  gave   him 

birth, 
Left     fond     endearments     which     his     bosom 

wrung, 
Scenes  which   enshrined  the   golden  dreams  of 

earth, 
And  o'er  his  life  a  holy  radiance  flung. 

Millions  forsook  their  loved  and  cherished  land, 
And  only  cast  one  long  and  lingering  look  ; 

From    their    bright    streams,    and    flowers,    and 

breezes  bland, 
Their  solitary  way  forever  took, 

O  God  !   what  tortures  rise  before  the  view, 
The  work  of  frantic  Persecution's  skill ; 

Fancy  her  canvas  spreads,  and  fain  would  draw 
The  scenes  of  woe  its  dark  prospective  fill. 

Those  tortures  echo  round  her  crumbling  throne, 
And  blight  her  spirit  with  revengeful  hate ; 


218  SPAIN. 

Wrapt  in  a  cold  reserve  she  sits  forlorn, 

To  feel    the    curse    that    marks   her  mournful 
fate. 

Not  those   soft    airs    that    round   her  mountains 
float, 

Or  melodies  that  from  her  valleys  swell, 
The  social  streams  of  happiness  promote, 

To  weave  o'er  all  a  bright  enchanting  spell. 

Her  groves,  the  Genii  of  immortal  song 

Their  home  delighted  might  have  ever  made, 

And  woke  more  classic  harp  than  Maro  strung 
By  fair  Italia's  streams  and  hallowed  shade. 

The  universe  has  listened  to  her  lore; 

Her  wisdom  pure  has  taught  profoundest  sage  ; 
Her  virtue  brightened  every  peopled  shore, — 

Hispania  been  the  glory  of  the  age  ! 

Rocked  in  her  indolence  with  curses  vile, 

Long  has  she  slumbered  on  Corruption's  bed ; 

Science  her  name  has  blotted  from  its  scroll, 
And  Justice  turned  away  its  injured  head. 

Is  there  no  star  of  hope  on  night's  dark  sky, 
No  voice  of  rest  to  smooth  the  troubled  wave, 

No  joy  to  soothe  aggression's  stifled  sigh, 

No  power  on  high  the  fettered  soul  to  save  ? 


SPAIN. 


219 


Aye,  there  's  a  God  of  justice  —  Spaniard,  rise ! 

A  lofty  doom  may  yet  thy  fate  control ; 
Look  upward  to  that  throne  beyond  the  skies, 

Till  light  shine   through   the   darkness  of  thy 
soul. 


I  HAVE  FOUND  THEE,  FLORA. 

SUGGESTED    WHILE    ON   THE    WAY   TO    THE    NAVY 
YARD    AT    WASHINGTON. 

I  HAVE  found  thee,  blushing  Flora, 

Out  from  all  the  city's  din, 
Beautiful  in  Nature's  glory, 

Here  these  hallowed  shades  within. 

In  the  populous  city  pining, 
What  the  weary  mind  can  fill! 

Glory  wears  a  fulsome  shining, 
Leaving  life  a  vacuum  still. 

What  were  all  Napoleon's  conquests, 
Save  to  scorch  his  heated  brain,  — 

Goading  on  a  mad  ambition, 
Till  it  clenched  his  iron  chain. 

But  this  spot  of  rural  beauty 
Has  no  sin,  or  woe,  or  dread ; 

Pure  the  breath  that  blows  so  sweetly 
From  the  locusts  overhead. 

Here,  indeed,  is  earthly  glory; 

This  is  pleasure's  brimming  bowl, 
Here  to  witness  blushing  Flora, 

Where  Potomac's  waters  roll. 


CHOICE   OF   A   FRIEND. 

GIVE  me  a  friend  whose  noble  mind 
Would  scorn  deceit  or  word  untrue  ; 

Whose  heart  is  warm  with  feelings  kind; 
Whose  pleasures  chaste,  however  few ; 

Whose  whole  deportment  marks  her  just ; 

To  her  companions  good  and  kind ; 
Faithful  and  true  in  friendship's  trust; 

With  manners  graceful  and  refined. 

But  whither  shall  we  turn  to  find 

In  daily  life  a  friend  sincere  ? 
Fashion  controls  the  human  mind, 

And  rules  it  with  a  rod  severe. 

Then  let  me  go  from  Fashion's  round, 

Its  heartless  ceremonious  rite, 
To  where  in  sunnier  realm  is  found 

What  well  might  heart  with  heart  unite  : 

Religion,  virtue,  here  abound, 

Mingled  with  meekness,  truth,  and  sense ; 
Manners  polite  and  gentle  found, — 

All  glowing  with  intelligence. 


222  CHOICE   OF  A  FRIEND. 

Where  such  you  meet,  you  meet  a  friend, 
Sincere  and  generous,  just  and  true: 

Beauty  is  perfect  in  that  mind, 
And  perfect  in  the  manners  too. 

Then,  through  life's  ever  varied  scene, 
Such  should  my  guide  and  pattern  be ; 

Life  then  would  be  a  walk  serene, 
And  friendship  a  reality. 


TO   THE   ORIOLE. 

BEAUTEOUS  bird,  we  hail  thy  coming; 

Leaf  and  flower  are  on  the  tree  ; 
They  tell  us,  yearly,  thy  returning, 

And  we  Ve  longed  to  welcome  thee. 

From  the  blithesome  days  of  childhood, 
Thou  hast  annual  visits  made ; 

Always  coming  when  the  wildwood 
First  puts  on  the  vernal  shade. 

Beauteous  bird !   thou  'st  been  a  rover 
Where  the  rude  winds  never  blow; 

Yes,  methinks,  hast  wandered  over 
Where  the  lime  and  orange  grow. 

Hast  thou  not  some  tale  to  tell  us, 
Of  yon  bright  and  orient  clime,  — 

Of  those  rivers,  vales,  and  islets, 

Sung  by  bards  in  themes  sublime  — 

Where  thou  'st  roamed  by  vale  or  mountain, 
Rich  in  every  glittering  hoard; 

Dressed  thy  plume,  or  drank  from  fountain 
Never  yet  by  man  explored? 


224  TO   THE   ORIOLE. 

In  that  note  so  earnest  swelling, 
Breathed  to  her,  thy  gentle  mate, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  fondly  telling 
Thou  dost  all  to  her  relate. 

Ah !    thy  notes  to  me  are  cheering,  — 
How  they  lead  to  childhood's  day, 

When  I  sported,  never  fearing 
Care  or  sorrow,  on  my  way ; 

When  I  watched  with  anxious  eying, 
Thy  rich  plumage  long  to  see, 

When  thou  didst  in  playful  flying 
Shake  the  blossoms  from  the  tree,  — 

From  my  casement  so  familiar, 
Where  the  willow  drooped  before, 

And  its  low  and  mournful  rustle 

Stole  like  waves  along  the  shore,  — 

There  my  eye  has  often  met  thee, 
Hovering  round  thy  curious  nest, 

Fluttering  while  the  breezes  rocked  thee, 
Rocked  thy  nestlings  sweet  to  rest. 

But  that  tree  forever  perished,— 
How  I  grieved  to  see  the  change ; 

So  the  things  we  've  fondly  cherished 
Fade,  and  leave  us  lone  and  strange. 


TO   THE  ORIOLE. 


225 


Beauteous  bird!   come,  make  thy  dwelling 

In  this  dark  acacia  tree; 
Here  mayst  rear  and  teach  thy  nestling 

How  to  sing  and  fly  like  thee. 


15 


EVENING   HYMN. 

GREAT  Ruler  of  the  universe  supreme ! 

Thou  spirit  of  all  life  and  light ! 
To  Thee  alone  would  we  approach  unseen, 

As  silence  closes  round  the  night. 

With  gratitude  may  every  thought  expand, 

Awed  by  Thine  omnipresent  eye, 
Whose  vigilance  our  every  thought  has  scanned, 

As  swift  our  moments  hurried  by. 

Faintly,  indeed,  Thy  statutes  are  imprest 

Upon  the  tablet  of  our  mind ; 
What  feeble  reverence  from  our  erring  breast, 

For  mercies  everywhere  combined. 

With  pain  a  useless  life  we  oft  behold, 
Hence  turn  us  wholly,  Lord,  to  Thee ; 

And  will,  that  in  Thine  everlasting  fold, 
We  yet  Thy  face  may  live  to  see. 


PARTING   MEDITATIONS. 

WHEN  you  leave  the  household  altar, 

And  your  home  shall  distant  be, 
Think  you  not  our  voice  will  falter 

When  your  place  we  vacant  see  ? 
Name  no  more  the  hour  of  parting, 

That  on  which  so  oft  you  dwell, 
Lest  the  tear  you  would  be  starting, 

Lest  the  heart  with  grief  should  swell ! 
For,  you  know,  the  coming  morrow 

Bears  you  from  us  far  away. 
And  alone  in  silent  sorrow 

We  shall  pass  each  wintry  day. 
Often,  when  the  day  declining 

Sends  its  glory  up  the  West, 
We  shall  watch  its  peaceful  shining 

Round  you,  with  a  radiance  blest! 
We  will  watch,  as  day  reposes, 

As  you  Ve  watched  with  deep  delight, 
Till  the  evening  sky  discloses 

All  the  brightest  stars  of  night. 
When  around  the  hearth  we  gather, — 

Father,  mother,  sister,  three, — 
Then  we  '11  dwell  more  fond  than  ever, 

And  your  faces  sigh  to  see. 


228 


PARTING  MEDITATIONS. 


When  upon  our  pillows  resting, 
Ere  we  close  our  eyes  in  sleep, — 

When  we  ask  our  Father's  blessing, 
Him  we  '11  ask  you  •both  to  keep. 


THE   OCEAN. 

IN  my  sea-side  dwelling  nestled, 
Sheltered  from  the  fearful  night, 

Waves  I  hear,  tremendous,  warring, 
Hurled  together  in  their  might. 

Ah !   is  that  the  glassy  ocean 
I  've  seen  sleeping  like  a  child, 

Without  murmur,  without  motion, 
Flickering  on  its  surface  mild? 

Hark  !  those  moans  with  dread  appall  me,  — 
Strike  the  bravest  heart  with  fear; 

Now  they  near  us,  wilder  tossing, 
Trembling  on  the  listening  ear. 

Navies  frail,  together  founder, 

Quenched  like  lights  to  shine  no  more  ! 
Mighty  Ocean !   echoing  thunder, 

Who  that  dwells  upon  thy  shore 

Carries  not  within  his  bosom 

Grander  thought  and  higher  aim? 

Schooled  by  God's  great  might  and  glory, 
All  is  trifling,  all  is  tame. 


THE   GRAVE   OF   MY   LITTLE   NAME- 
SAKE. 

THERE  is  a  little  grave  by  yonder  hill, 
A  little  grave  I  've  often  wished  to  see ; 

They  say  't  is  in  a  valley  deep  and  still, 
And  darkly  shadowed  by  a  spreading  tree. 

I  knew  the  infant  one  that  slumbers  there, 
And  oft  have  pressed  her  gentle  lips  to  mine  ; 

Her  prattling,  guileless  voice  I  loved  to  hear, 
When  uttered  at  the  dear  maternal  shrine. 

And  thou,  her  sister,  long  her  toys  will  keep. 
And  keep  the  lock  of  hair  that  graced  her  brow  : 

Her  heart  so  cold  in  Death's  eternal  sleep, 
Heeds  no  emotion  that  affects  us  now. 


ST.  NICHOLAS  TO  MY  DEAR  CHILDREN 

DEAR  children,  lo,  't  is  Christmas  Eve ! 
Again  I  Ve  come  my  gifts  to  leave ; 
A  long  twelvemonth  has  passed  away 
Since  I  a  visit  came  to  pay. 
My  little  friends  I  ne'er  forget, 
And  long  it  seems  since  last  we  met. 
Dear  children,  may  I  hope  to  find 
A  heart  in  each  as  pure  and  kind, 
As  when  a  year  ago  this  day 
St.  Nic.  his  visit  came  to  pay? 

Good  children  always  love  me  well ; 

The  gifts  I  've  brought  them  none  can  tell ; 

But  ne'er  a  year  have  I  before 

Of  presents  brought  so  nice  a  store ; 

And  what  they  are,  ah  !   who  shall  see 

Or  know  what  Nicholas  gives  to  thee, 

Until  the  morning  peeps  around 

And  you  these  presents  shall  have  found? 

I  'm  very  old,  my  little  ones  ; 

I  'm  short  and  fat  and  full  of  fun ; 

My  cheeks  are  plump,  my  face  is  round ; 

In  merry  glee  I  most  abound; 


232    ST.  NICHOLAS   TO  MY  DEAR   CHILDREN. 

I  'm  very  old !   there  's  many  a  race 
Has  gone  to  its  last  hiding-place 
Since  Nicholas  first  came  to  earth, 
And  joy  sent  round  the  wintry  hearth. 


« I  'M  THE   LAST  OF   MY  TRIBE."  1 

THUS  it  was  that  a  poor  Indian  spoke, 
As  life's  sun  was  fast  going  down  ; 

And  the  force  of  those  words  must  have  woke 
Emotions  few  mortals  have  known. 

Can  you  sound  all  the  depth  of  that  thought, 
The  soul-stirring  sadness  it  brings, 

With  the  changes  that  ages  have  wrought, 
The  death-knell  it  mournfully  rings  ? 

Oft  he  sat  on  a  rock  by  the  road, 
Through  summers  successively  gone ; 

Dwelling,  perchance,  on  his  woodland  abode, 
And  riches  his  fathers  had  known. 

Houseless  and  homeless,  wand'ring  at  will, 

Feeble  and  old,  weary  and  lone, 
Baskets  he  wove,  with  wonderful  skill, 

From  morning  till  set  of  the  sun. 

As  I  passed  there  a  summer  agone, 
There  still  was  the  shadowy  tree ; 

There  was  the  rock,  where  so  often  alone 
I  chanced  that  poor  Indian  to  see. 

i  The  last  of  the  Montauk  tribe  of  Indians. 


534 


THE  LAST  OF  MY  TRIBE: 


Now  they  tell  me  that  he  is  no  more, — 

His  tribe  is  forever  extinct ; 
Buried  their  arrow,  silent  their  oar, 

Gone  the  last  one  that  to  them  was  linked. 


TO   A  MARTIN.1 

THOU  little  wanderer  of  the  wing, 
Thy  home  is  where  the  daisies  spring, 
And  snowy  lambs  with  gentle  eye 
On  grassy  slopes  reposing  lie. 
Oh !  is  there  now  for  thee  no  room 
In  balmy  bowers  where  roses  bloom  ? 
Oh  !  is  there  not  'neath  heaven's  high  dome 
A  spot  but  this  to  make  thy  home, 
Where  latent  fire  and  iron  ball 
Already  fill  this  cannon  wall  ? 

Say,  birdie,  say,  why  dost  thou  crave 
A  war-worn  ship  that  rides  the  wave ; 
Why  cease  the  woodland's  sweets  to  roam, 
And  iron  walls  choose  for  thy  home  ? 
Poor  bird,  why  seek  so  strange  a  place? 
Say,  dost  thou  love  the  human  race, 
And  rather  build  thy  little  nest 
By  man,  though  in  a  cannon's  breast? 

Presagest  this  an  omen  blest; 
Shall  peace  now  on  our  nation  rest  ; 

1  To  a  martin  that  built  her  nest  in  a  thirty-pounder  Parrot 
gun,  on  board  the  United  States  Steamer  Richmond,  near  Port 
Hudson,  Mississippi  River,  during  the  spring  of  1863. 


236  TO  A  MARTIN. 

Or  must  we  whet  the  bloody  blade 
Again,  before  the  strife  is  stayed; 
Or,  dost  thou  bide  the  clouds  that  lower? 
Life  's  but  a  risk  from  hour  to  hour. 

Ah,  gentle  wanderer  of  the  wing, 
That  came  so  sweetly  here  to  sing, 
How  couldst  thy  gentle  bosom  spare 
Thy  nestlings  to  the  warriors'  care  ? 

Then  warbling  low  she  tuned  her  lay, 
And  seemed  in  sweetest  song  to  say : 
"  Mothers  before  their  loved  ones  gave 
Our  Flag  and  Union  both  to  save  ; 
My  little  brood,  my  home,  my  all, 
I  've  placed  between  the  foe  and  ball ; 
Myself  and  nestlings  I  would  give 
To  have  our  Flag  and  Union  live  ! 
To  me,  though  great  the  sacrifice, 
'T  is  nought  when  Freedom  is  the  price. 
By  God's  own  help  you  '11  sheath  the  sword  ; 
The  Union  saved,  and  Peace  restored ! " 


THE    UNITED   STATES   STEAMER 
RICHMOND. 

ON  THE  TAKING  OF  NEW  ORLEANS.1 

OUR  gallant  ship  her  way  had  stood 
Through  fiery  storms  of  shot  and  shell, 

And  hot  the  tide  of  human  blood 
The  siege  terrific  flowed  to  quell. 

Bold  ship !  that  in  her  bosom  held 
Brave  hearts  as  ever  beat  in  man, — 

That  faced  the  foe  till  victory  smiled, 
And  on  its  track  in  splendor  ran  ! 

Hard  panting  in  that  awful  strife, 

What  fame  the  noble  Richmond  won  ! 

And  blended  in  our  nation's  life 
Achievements  time  may  not  outrun. 

Ah,  't  was  indeed  an  awful  strife ! 

The  lurid  storm  terrific  ran  ! 
And  battle  throes,  in  earthquake  might, 

Were  sped  to  test  the  rights  of  man. 

i  Written  for  a  naval  officer  attached  to  the  Richmond  during 
the  war. 


238      UNITED  STATES  STEAMER  RICHMOND. 

Brave  ship !  one  of  that  squadron  true 
Which  Farragut  victorious  led, — 

Which  cleft  the  fated  knot  in  two, 

And  crushed  the  hydra  monster's  head ! 


BATTLE   OF   BULL   RUN.      1861. 

WRITTEN    THE    MORNING   AFTER   THE    BATTLE. 

OH,  won't  the  world  have  jolly  fun, 

O'er  forty  thousand  braves, 
Who  from  the  enemy  did  run 

Like  troops  of  cowering  slaves ! 

Won't  England  laugh  and  shake  her  sides, 
And  wag  her  head  and  sneer ! 

Won't  France,  and  every  land  beside, 
Such  braves  with  plaudits  cheer! 

That  awful  run,  from  old  Bull  Run, 

Is  hence  enrolled  in  fame ; 
Immortal  histories  have  been  won, 

But  Freedom  burns  with  shame. 

Ah,  beauteous  land  of  glorious  fame, 
Where  is  thy  nerve  and  valor  gone? 

Rise  !  haste  her  honor  to  reclaim, 
Or  fly  the  land  of  Washington. 


NOTES. 
I.  LEAVES  ON  THE  STREAM. 

This  little  stream  flows  through  the  pleasure-grounds  of  the 
late  Prof.  Norton  of  Cambridge,  Mass.  It  was  in  the  season  of 
autumn,  when  the  foliage  of  the  more  easterly  latitude  is  of  the 
most  gorgeous  colors,  that  the  author  passed  through  those 
grounds,  admiring  the  stream  and  rural  beauty  of  the  surround- 
ing scenery. 

II.  MOUNT  AUBURN. 

Keference  is  made  in  this  poem  to  a  friend  —  Mrs.  Jane  E. 
Locke,  the  authoress  —  who  accompanied  me  through  that  beau- 
tiful cemetery,  and  who,  soon  after,  very  suddenly  died. 

III.  LAKE  HARRISON. 

This  splendid  sheet  of  water  is  in  the  forest  in  Washington 
County,  in  the  State  of  Maine.  It  is  a  fashionable  resort  for 
parties  of  pleasure  for  many  miles  around.  On  one  of  these 
occasions  the  author  was  called  upon  to  name  the  Lake.  It  was 
then  christened  Lake  Harrison,  and  soon  after  the  poem  was 
written. 

IV.   GLENVILLE 

Is  a  charming  little  rural  village  situated  on  the  Byrum  River, 
which  forms  a  part  of  the  boundary  line  between  New  York 
State  and  Connecticut. 


V.  To  THE  DELAWARE  RIVER. 

Wequehhalah  was  King  of  the  Delawares  between  one  and 
two  centuries  ago.    He  became  deluded  by  the  arts  of  the  white 
16 


242  NOTES. 

man  to  whom  he  had  given  a  cordial  welcome  on  his  possessions. 
After  enjoining  upon  his  people  to  move  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
white  man,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  executed,  hoping  by  it  to 
save  them  from  further  molestation.  — Oral  Indian  Tradition. 


VI.  THE  YOUNG  BRIDE 

Is  a  true  tale.  She  was  a  lovely  and  beautiful  young  lady,  but 
died  of  a  broken  heart  soon  after  her  marriage,  in  consequence 
of  the  neglect  of  her  husband. 


VII.    To  A  MARTIN. 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  following  incident  from  the 
correspondence  of  Mr.  Emery,  an  officer  of  the  United  States 
Steamer  Richmond,  during  the  war:  — 

After  the  naval  attack  on  Port  Hudson,  during  which  the 
Mississippi  was  burned,  and  most  of  the  fleet  disabled,  the  Rich- 
mond was  stationed  just  below  the  fortifications,  to  guard,  with 
other  vessels,  the  flank  of  Banks'  army.  The  green  landscape, 
bordering  the  overflowing  waters  of  the  noble  Mississippi,  dis- 
played every  spring  flower  of  that  luxurious  clime,  from  the  jas- 
mine-entwined magnolia  down  to  the  familiar  violet.  Birds 
were  everywhere  warbling  and  making  their  little  homes.  A 
pair  of  martins  came  to  the  Richmond,  and  selected  the  interior 
of  a  thirty-pounder  Parrot  rifle,  which  extended  astern  of  the 
ship,  and,  though  a  board-house  was  placed  for  them  in  the 
mizen-top,  they  preferred  the  long  shining  cannon,  and  actually 
brought  sticks,  straws,  etc.,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  shore, 
built  their  nest  next  the  shell  in  the  gun,  and  hatched  their 
little  brood.  During  the  simultaneous  attacks  of  Grant  at  Vicks- 
burg  and  Banks  at  Port  Hudson,  this  gun  was  moved  to  shell 
the  river  batteries.  The  birds  hovered  about  the  muzzle  until 
the  piece  was  fired,  when,  with  the  fragments  of  their  nest,  they 
departed. 


w  p\       i 

YB    i 


M  95O3 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


